Long Way Out
by lollercakes
Summary: You've gotta climb a long way out of the bottom of a bottle. Haymitch volunteers to take Katniss back to 12 after her trial but is he in over his head with the broken Mockingjay? Haymitch's story, M for mature content/swearing.
1. Chapter 1

He just wanted to get out of here. Out of the fake Capitol lights and colours. Out, out, out to where he could fuck off and die in peace. He'd been stuck here for days – no, weeks – waiting, testifying, watching.

Ever since the damn girl had let loose that bow he'd had no bottle in his hand. Nothing to clutch and dampen his mind. He was strung tight and sleepless, restless and abusive. Nobody would get close to him – he preferred it that way. He just wanted to be left _alone_. Wanted to go back to his shitdump with its harsh clear liquor. Away from this ritzy wine that always tasted of death and terror. It was hard enough to get drunk enough to pass out here on an average day. Now it was near impossible.

He'd been summoned into the phony trial since the beginning – always having his flask removed from his grip. He'd been called on to drabble on about the horror – oh, the horror – of that precious traitor Coin. He'd thought she'd be a catalyst all along – knew she'd be the one to bring down the great _Mockingjay_ – her own creation and yet her worst nightmare.

He wasn't being clear. Katniss Everdeen had killed the President. And not the demon one Snow, but the rebels' dear Coin – who was just as bad, in his opinion. Snow had died too – somehow – he just couldn't really remember that part. And now Everdeen was on trial pending insanity. You'd be a fool to see she wasn't a bit off her rocker what with all the singing and crazy shit happening in her cell. He was surprised she hadn't been successful in offing herself yet. He hated himself for that thought. He was jealous.

He just wanted to go home. But he had to wait – he owed that much to her at least.

She'd been the one they were waiting for. Cinna, who'd come out of nowhere in all his years of mentoring, had been the one to light the well placed match on her slowly building pile of kindling. She'd become the Girl on Fire and he'd stoked the fire until it was a blaze. A blaze that had burnt the Capitol to the ground and turned the world to ash. She'd nearly burnt up with it if only she'd gotten the little poison pill.

Damn _him_. He tried not to think of _him_. Tried not to remind himself of the gasoline that had burned so hot and bright and _made_ the world watch the fire burn. He knew the boy had been necessary. Knew the boy would be left behind. He regretted that he'd failed in the second Arena to get him out. But the fire could not have been contained and once gas was burned, it was burned _out_.

Peeta Mellark had been the accelerant to everything. His words, his ridiculous obsession with loving this flame. He'd helped set the world alight with his love. He hated him for it. He was jealous of it. Peeta had been punished for his role – stripped of his sanity and sent to the hospital to recuperate. Sent to be forgotten as this flame began to burn out into madness.

The trial dragged on. The great filthy saga of the Girl on Fire who was now the Girl with the Arrow who was now the girl trying to hang herself with her shirt sleeve. He'd watched the trial with disdain and sobriety. He'd watched the girl try to slip away without notice. She wasn't successful. She wasn't successful each time she tried. He knew how she felt. That's why he stayed, too. He couldn't let her burn out alone. He'd caught fire too.

Today was the day. Today it ended. Today it would be decided. Today he'd be on a train heading somewhere.

When he walked in today he kept his flask. Nobody would challenge him on it. His rumpled form sat heavily on the benches in the back. He watched as Gale Hawthorne and his merry troop of family and friends sat in the front of the room. He'd brought his mother and oldest brother. He sat with Beetee and the broken doll Effie Trinkett.

His drunken soul cringed at how he felt for that ticking clock of a day timer. She looked more flushed out and pale than he'd ever seen her. And he'd seen her a lot.

His eyes scan the room. In the opposite corner he watches as Johanna Mason, the remnants at least, sit in a tight posture. She looks filthy. He's not the only one hiding out behind some crutch of a curtain.

The panel of judges enter the room and it's required that everyone stand. He stays sitting.

And so it begins.

"Today is the day to determine the fate of the nation's most infamous individual. We've collected much information regarding Katniss Mellark -"

He scoffs. They don't even see the truth in the girl.

"- And her current condition. We've examined her mental state prior to, and during, the assassination of President Coin. We have also considered the tremendous sacrifices that she has made to bring Panem into peace."

The room is silent. He can feel the alcohol-filled blood seep through his system. Stillness.

"While we can make no accommodations based on her sacrifices – as everyone of Panem citizenry has sacrificed – we do find Katniss Mellark to be acquitted based on a condition of insanity."

The judge pauses, expecting some reaction from the crowd. There is none.

"She will be released to District 12 to continue her life. She will be restricted to that District and will be able to apply for transfer, should she choose and it be approved, ten years from this date. Until then monthly check-ins with authorities and weekly counselling will be required as necessary. She is released into the custody of her mother, Lily Everdeen, who will maintain this guardianship."

There's the reaction they were waiting for. The room erupts into chaos as the Hawthorne boy whips to his feet and begins shouting. The Peacekeepers – no, the court guards – react by pushing him back down to his seat.

"She's not even _here_, sir! Her mother has no interest in returning to that District or in caring for her!" The shouts of the boy are all too true.

Lily Everdeen never came to the trials. She had disappeared off with Annie Cresta to District 4 before the trial had even begun. She'd given up hope on her one remaining daughter after losing the little one in the final bombing.

He'd called her twice, both times too intoxicated to do more than yell at her for abandoning her child. He was so bitter. He'd lost his family by force and here she was willingly giving hers away. She'd listened on the end of the phone and he had heard the quiet sobs.

He'd hung up still angry and still having gotten nowhere. He wasn't the only one frustrated with the Everdeen woman's lack of participation in her own daughter's fate. Clearly the Hawthorne kid was having a fit.

The guards had already returned him to his seat twice.

"Mr Hawthorne, we cannot release her to you. We require a previous guardian of Mrs Mellark in order to monitor her safety and behaviour. As you have not been her guardian before we have no precedent to impose this on you and we are otherwise unwilling to risk the safety of those in District 2." The Hawthorne both has stopped arguing.

"So what will be done with her?" Beetee, always smart Beetee. The judge looks baffled as he sifts through his papers. The rest of the panel shifts in their seats uncomfortably.

"Without a proper guardian she will be held indefinitely here in the Capitol."

His heart stops. The flame will be doused. Here, in the Capitol. Where so many others have lost their fight. The faces of his old friends and acquaintances flicker by. He can't let her stay here. She'd be better off dead. His hand shakes as he lifts the flask to his lips and downs the rest. He's grateful for the contemplative quiet of the court as options are thrown around during the confusion. He slowly lifts himself to his feet using the bench ahead of him.

The eyes flicker towards him. So many fools.

"Seriously, Haymitch? Sit your filthy ass down." He doesn't bother to look towards Johanna's crass voice from the corner.

"I'll take the little bird to her cage. I've been her guardian before, why not continue this charade?" He stumbles to the aisle way and he can feel the judgement. He's not drunk enough for this. He can't leave her here. What is he going to do with all the coal in District 12?

* * *

><p><em>AN: So this is a companion piece to The Storm. It's going to run parallel but I'm going to steer away from redundancy and repetition in scenes so hopefully that's successful and not a terrible mistake.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

He'd only been to the video room before. He'd never actually been down to the cells. It was harder here, the walls were cinder blocks and the ventilation was terrible at best. It was suffocating. He was too sober. Not by choice.

He'd been brought from the court directly to the Justice Office where the papers had been re-drawn and signed. The judging panel deciding on the case had found no other option – like they'd even tried – to figure out what to do with her. He could tell they'd just wanted her out of their custody. They just had needed a legal excuse to exile her. He'd volunteered. At least he'd finally volunteered for something.

He'd faced no backlash after he'd offered to be her guardian. He thought he would have at least from the Hawthorne kid. But he hadn't. The only one who had even spoken up was Johanna. He was too sober for this.

As the hallway stretched on the glass walls that secured traitors and killers to their cells seemed infinite. There was no natural light here. It was all manufactured torture. The guard stopped just ahead and Haymitch forced his feet forward. Too sober.

He looked through the glass to see what he hadn't been able to distinguish from the camera screens. She was whip thin and her eyes were sunken. Her back was to the wall as her knobby knees were clutched to her chest. She hadn't even looked this bad when she'd been nearly starving prior to 74. Fuck. What would he do with this broken bird?

"Ain't no time for a reunion. The train leaves in 20 minutes and you've got to be on it." The guard grunted. Haymitch glared. She pushed slowly to her feet, her hospital gown hanging to her knees. She must have just been released again. He held out her clothes to her – a standard sweatpant and shirt set from the District 13 stocks. It was an awkward moment when he faced the guard who refused to turn around as she changed. There was no decency left here.

"Come on," He held out his hand and she took it reluctantly. He pulled her along behind him as he rushed to get to the surface again. The claustrophobia of the space closing in. When they reached fresh air he wretched in the bushes lining the walls of the building. She didn't even have a remark to scold him with.

He was bringing home a shell of a person. At least it wasn't a casket. At least.

He didn't see her on the train. She kept to her compartment and left him to his sickening wine. The Avox assigned to them checked on her frequently.

They'd never have to come back to the Capitol. They'd never have to board this train again. He was drinking to celebrate.

Let's be honest – he was drinking to forget.

When they arrived back in District 12 they disembarked with the rattle of stolen alcohol clinking in his bag. The District was hollowed out. Only a few had returned to settle so early and the market was selling basic supplies only. He was in for a dry spell. He'd stocked up as best he could.

She hadn't bothered to change. He wondered if she would fall down the same path as him and pick up the bottle.

They walked in silence to the Victor's Village where he deposited her at her house. He keyed open the door and set down the bag of clothing she hadn't been willing or was able to carry – he couldn't tell which. It was silent as she stood in the foyer and examined the emptiness surrounding her. He knew the void all too well.

Slowly, he turned her to face him and put his hands on her shoulders. He met her quiet grey eyes and gave her the only advice he'd been able to give her all along.

"Stay alive."

He was drunk. Surprise.

It was a stumbled pace he took as he asked around to the few residents where Greasy Sae was living now. He knew he needed an ally to keep her alive a bit longer.

The people had directed him to Sae's old living quarters – apparently she hadn't moved after returning. Even better her house had somehow survived the bombing.

He pushed his way up to her door as it was swung open to meet him.

"What sweet hell am I in to have you on my doorstep?" Her voice was like gravel.

"She's going to need some watching." He didn't need to say more as Sae seemed to understand. "She's rough Sae, worse than after the blast with her father. I don't think I can do it." He'd not said these words aloud before. He'd never admit weakness.

This wasn't about his pride. This was about keeping the flame lit.

"I know. Gale Hawthorne has been keeping me updated with letters. Didn't know she was getting out though. Meals then?" Haymitch nodded.

"Is there a new Ripper?" He hated to be so cold about his old supplier. He couldn't mourn that death too.

"Not yet. Should do you some good. Go home Haymitch, I'll get you if anything changes." He nodded and stepped back, turning to head to his house. Not his home. Never his home.

It was weeks. No. Months. Maybe. He lost track. If there was ever a serious blip on the Katniss radar, he'd been too fucked up to notice.

Sae had been reporting steady reluctance to eat and a resistance to leaving her bed. He could live with that as long as she kept breathing. That's all that had been assigned to him. He didn't even have to make her phone the doctors.

He'd disappeared into his own demonic memories as his liquor supply began to shorten out. It had gotten worse since his return, a new set of war-filled violence to fill his waking moments.

Before it had always been Maysilee Donner filling the holes. He'd seen her speared. He'd seen her turn to ash. He'd seen her die in his arms. The variety was endless. Now he had the added mix of Katniss and Peeta rotting and terrorizing each other. He had Chaff being destroyed in the Arena. He had Finnick and Annie ripped apart. His fading memories of his family being tortured where he now drank himself under.

Somehow he had the living and dead existing on within him and haunting both waking daylight and suffocating night.

He needed a drink. He needed a goddamn end. He had to keep on keeping on – for her, as much good as that was doing her.

He discovered Rylan in town not too soon after he started keeping geese in his sober period. He'd begun to collect them in a pen out back to fill the waking hours. They seemed to honk and squawk loud enough to drown out even the screaming and choking that roared in his ears.

Rylan was the new Ripper. Not as good. Never as good. But his supply was steady and he had stools setup for full service and he made conversation with drunks like him. It was almost relieving.

He was there every day, investing his Victor money which never got cut off even despite the war. He'd leave with a bottle and pass out at his kitchen table, gripping his knife in his hand.

The pattern hadn't much changed that night as he stumbled home from one of Rylan's stools. The Village was still in the pouring rain of the storm. He didn't mind the walk. The rain washed at his clothes and the lightning lit the sky enough to see ahead. Maybe he'd get lucky and it would strike him down.

He collapsed at his table, wet clothes dripping on the floor, as he slipped unconscious.

The screaming seemed so real this time. It was roaring at his ears and he could hear the crack of thunder in his conscious mind. And then he was awake. The buzz of the alcohol was gone and he could see across the room a shaking and mad figure hunched over. The lightning flickered in the room and it was like a horror scene as he recognized Peeta, bloody and ripped, across from his table.

He didn't understand. Why was this dream so real? What the fuck was happening? He clutched his knife tighter in his fist as he tried to reduce the fog in his mind.

It clicked into place as the words began to make sense. He could decipher the choked cries that were his worst nightmare. He'd failed her. Coin's last weapon had been sent to destroy her. He lifted to his feet and headed for the door. Peeta continued to track blood and stutter in his kitchen as he made his way across the tamed lawns to Peeta's swinging porch door.

It clapped against the side of the house with every forceful gust of wind. The storm was brewing everywhere. His heart was racing. His mind was as clear as the day it had been in the 50.

He didn't want to see what was in this house. He had enough scenes of terror and murder and blood and pain to last him forever. Almost a hundred scenes of children's deaths littered his memories. He stepped over the threshold and was met by the crunch of bloody glass below his shoes. He pushed forward into the hallway and staggered through the dark house. He didn't call out. He didn't want to wake the demons.

He tracked the blood that seemed to stop before the hallway – he followed it back into the kitchen and entered the front room. His eyes scanned the clawed couch and destroyed bits of what looked to be a chair. His eyes met the bloody mantle where fingerprints dragged on and on.

The lightning flickered in through the window and the storm had a moment of silence - or at least it felt like that – when he saw her curled up on the floor.

He stopped. He didn't want to be here. He couldn't let another girl die in his arms. He wanted to run. He was a waste of a man.

He stepped forward, his insides protesting. His body crouched. He could see the ripped cloth and the early bruises spreading on her arms. She was shaking.

She was alive.

He let out the breath he'd been holding. He reached out to pick her up. When his hand met her arm the shrieking started. It was harsh and it was violent but she didn't move and she didn't fight. She was beyond broken. He cradled her close as he staggered back to her house. She never stopped screaming as he laid her on her bed.

He stood back and watched as the blood rubbed off on the sheets and her body curled into itself tighter. He didn't know how to help her. And then it came to him.

Sae.

He was off in the night, abandoning her for help. He felt like a child running through the rain in a panic. He banged on the door for what seemed like hours before she answered in her nightgown.

There were no words exchanged as she followed closely behind him. The screaming had stopped by the time they arrived back to the house. He didn't slow down.

When they reached her room he was sure he was going mad. She wasn't where he'd left her. She wasn't on the bed anymore.

His hazy alcoholic mind spun. The panic and the adrenaline were wearing thin and he was losing all of his marbles in one fast go with the return of the fucking can of gasoline. Sae's voice brought him back to the present.

"I hear the shower," it was a whisper over the crush of the storm outside. Together they approached the bathroom. Sae pushed open the door and there was a small moan from Katniss as she curled her body away in the tub as the shower water beat down. He scanned for any injuries apart from the bruising. Relief flashed through him as he realized she wasn't bleeding apart from a few scrapes.

"What happened?" Sae asked quietly. She wasn't ready to approach yet.

"Peeta." He couldn't help the accusation. He couldn't tell if he hated himself or the boy more. At least the boy had an excuse.

"Where is he now?"

"In my kitchen, I think. I'll deal with him tomorrow. What do I do with her?" He was too sober for this.

"Call Gale. I don't care if they're strained – we need someone to watch her full time until we have this under control. I'll get her into bed. And find Thom Peat. He lives near the butchers. We'll need help with Peeta tomorrow." She'd dispatched him. He couldn't stand around and watch what happened next so he ran like the child he was being. He was too sober for this.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Not sure what was up with the chapter and login fails I've been having. Hopefully this works this time!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

"Can we just leave him there, boss? I mean, what good is it?" Thom Peat stood beside him as they looked down the steep hill where the boy lay collapsed and unconscious.

It was still fucking raining. He'd never gotten that lightning bolt he'd wished for. Oh, how'd he'd wished. He was still too sober.

He shook his head in response.

"We owe him more than a ditch death." Haymitch stepped forward and slowly, staggeringly, worked his way downward. The wash from the storm had created a run out heading downwards. His footing was uneven. The Peat boy stayed at the top and tossed down a rope.

When he reached the bottom his eyes met the sky with clarity and without nightmares. What the fuck was going on? He leaned down and tied the rope under the boy's arms. As Thom began to pull him upwards Haymitch caught on the wound on Peeta's side.

This wasn't a good sign at all. He could see the puckering red lined pale skin surrounding it. He could see the grey yellow of his skin in the Arena. He could see the leg being slashed with a sword that should have removed it completely. He could see it all behind his eyes. He pressed his fists to his sockets and crouched low for a moment, exhausted and oh, so sober.

How different it would all have been if he'd just bled out in the Arena like a good little Tribute. He hated the thought.

"Boss, he's caught on something. Better get a move on up here." Damn, this Peat kid was annoying – it was like talking about a caught fishing line, not a kid. He was just a kid. They all were just _kids_. His head was pounding. It was still raining. He pushed his way upwards and twisted Peeta's limp frame loose of the brush.

When they reached the top they took a moment to breathe and then lifted, together, Peeta's bulky frame. Why was this kid so heavy?

It was mid-afternoon before they got him back to his house. Sae met them as they were rinsing him off in the tub.

"How is she?" He didn't want to know. He hadn't seen her since they'd found her crouching under the hot spray of the water.

"She's resting. Hasn't said a word."

They got the boy into some clothes and set him in the room that didn't look like a hurricane mess.

"I didn't even know he was back." It was a statement. He hadn't known. He hadn't noticed.

"He's been back for a couple of weeks. They've been paying for care services and since I was the only one who took the job..." Her voice trailed off as she worked on the glass in his feet. He could see where all the blood had come from now. He could breathe a little easier now. He could drink now. He left to find the old stash the boy had kept before 75.

He stayed with the boy. He'd felt guilty for the Arena. He felt guilty for the torture. He wanted to be terrifying when he finally woke up. He waited down the hall until he heard the _thump_ ring out and slowly struggled to the door frame. He was crumbled on the floor. He looked pathetic. He looked sorry. He helped him readjust.

"What the fuck?" He'd been wondering the same thing. How had he not been notified that this threat had returned? He was caught between hate and duty.

"Thom and I had to drag your carcass back up the hill. I'm a little tired." He'd been awake too long to count. Too long and too sober. He lifted the flask to his lips and took a pull. He could cure one problem now. The rest? Well, that was never something he could solve. The boy knocked him back to the present by playing the reality card.

"It was all real then," There was a pause that hung in the air. "Why didn't you let me stay out there? It would have been better for everyone," Haymitch knew that. He knew this kid's death would have solved so many problems. But the time had passed for that – it'd passed in 74. He'd promised to keep him alive. He moved to stand, unable to ensure that his facade of calm could stay in place as the rage from the night's events rolled back into his mind.

"Because there are important people in this world who need you to survive. Now, stay down and rest for once," He struggled not to mention the real reason Peeta had been brought back alive – for her. Always for her. All of Panem owed her. Owed the boy, too, he figured. It was all so tangled. He lurched for the doorway, his bones and soggy skin heavy. He had to get out before he showed his hand.

"Is she... Is she alive?"

He didn't want to answer that. The boy deserved to suffer the guilt and the shame. He'd already suffered so much. He nodded his response instead.

"How did you find me?" He was getting tired of this questioning. Hadn't he told him to _rest_? His feet carried him faster down the hallway.

"Boy, you were never graceful in the woods." It was a departing shout as he moved farther away. He didn't plan on coming back. He planned on ending up back in his kitchen with his clear poison and his knife.

He found himself instead walking into her house, pulling open the porch door and finding himself flush against Gale Hawthorne.

The kid was like the fucking old ninja myths that he'd heard about in the Capitol. Not a sound.

He stepped around him, avoiding the menacing feeling of Gale's eyes, and proceeded up the stairs to find how much of the flame remained.

When he reached the doorway he was surprised to find her already up and moving. The change was drastic compared to the reports that Sae had been giving him – at least those he remembered. He could see the blossom of colour on her cheek and the harsh bruises on her thin arms as she stood staring out the window. The sun surrounded her and he saw flames burning her up. He saw a phoenix. He clapped his knuckles on the door frame and cleared his throat with a fresh burn from his flask.

She didn't turn to meet his eyes.

"Fancy of you to come out of hiding," her voice was like sandpaper, cracking with each syllable. He deserved that. He couldn't help the anger that rose in reaction to the hurt.

"Funny, I thought a good hunter didn't get snared in a trap, twice." He felt the bile rise in his throat at the words. He was a terrible fucking human being. "You need to steer clear, sweetheart. The boy isn't right. He's dangerous. He's not the old Peeta anymore." He didn't think his warning could be clearer. He didn't think it had to be.

"I need to see him, Haymitch." Fucking rebellious.

"No, you don't. I didn't pull you out of that cell to be ripped apart by a mutt."

"So you got me out of one cell to bring me to another?" He had hope for this flame yet. Right now it was burning. He took another sip from his flask wanting to feel a different kind of burn in his gut.

"Little bird, I've just been trying to keep you alive." It was too honest for him. He wanted to put the words back in his mouth. She turned slightly to face him, no words on her lips. He could see the heavy shadows under her eyes; see the line where her head must have hit something hard. He didn't know if there were other wounds he couldn't see.

His mind's eye flashed with the horrors of the Capitol. With Finnick Odair's sordid stories. With the tortured tales he'd tried to drown. Suddenly he needed to know. Suddenly he couldn't face knowing. His stomach churned.

"Did he force himself on you?" She looked as though she'd been slapped. She shook her head, her lips tight.

"Never."

At least the boy would live.

He could see her drifting. See her eyes losing focus. She turned back to look out the window and began to sing quietly to herself.

He hated this Katniss. This was the broken version of the Mockingjay. This was the Capitol prison cell Mockingjay. How often did she fade? He hadn't paid attention.

He needed to start paying attention.

"Don't go over there, sweetheart. Unless you've got someone with you." He left quietly and met Gale in the kitchen. He was playing with what appeared to be a deck of cards. He hadn't seen a set in decades.

"Thanks for watching out for her, _Waste Case_." It didn't even wound – he'd heard it too many times. From every Tribute parent picking up their casket instead of their kid.

"Keep up the good work, _Cousin_."

His feet carried him home where he switched from his flask to his bottle.


	4. Chapter 4

It's always the goddamn dreams. Nightmares. His mind thrusts him awake before he can see the boy from 63 be devoured by mutt rodents. His stomach is churning with the memory. And perhaps the spinning hangover too. He reaches his hand across the stretch of the table and finds the half empty bottle. Pulling it to his lips he suckles it like a child. Just need to take off the edge.

His hand is shaking as he sets it back down. The house is silent. He opens his eyes and they meet blackness. The memories of the past waking hours creep back in.

How had this all happened?

He wiped his hand down his face as he stood. He debated for a moment finding something in the pantry and then gave up the idea – he wasn't going to cook and he sure as hell couldn't stomach anything right now anyways. His feet brought him into the front room as he collapsed on his filthy couch, a light glow from the desk lamp coating the room.

He lay in silence for a moment as the view above spun. He watched it silently begin to right itself as his hands reached between the cushions and pulled free a torn up leather journal. Its old parchment was cracked and yellowing as he read through the first few pages.

The first journal he'd ever been given was back at the end of 55. The giver had recognized something in his bleary eyes and fading skin and had given it to him without a word. Haymitch hadn't even noticed it was in his possession until he had returned to 12 with another set of caskets. It had tumbled out of his bag and cracked its spine on the floor.

He had nearly set it ablaze when he first opened the pages to see names and descriptions riddling the lines in a heavy scrawl. The names of all the Tributes he'd mentored since 51 and the brutal way in which they'd died. Most of them were short, simply reading "Cornucopia".

It had made him vomit up the last meal from the train and all the burning wine he'd consumed before returning to his empty house. Not his home.

He'd left the journal hidden until a drunken rage weeks later had spun him out of The Hob and into his house, tearing at anything in his path. He'd broken a few knuckles on the way and his hand was bleeding as he pulled out the journal and read through each page.

His sobs had cracked that night as he'd fallen into a new level of guilt. He'd finished the bottle and the pages at the same time and then passed out.

When he awoke the journal was still laid bloody on his chest. He picked it up and began to re-read it, this time using the fuel of the morning and the lack of the soggy alcohol to clear his mind as he read. He had recognized the script almost instantly. Had known it had been Chaff who had created this for him. His eyes struggled to focus as he took in the most recent additions. The entries were meticulous.

He'd spent the rest of the day on his couch chasing his daymares with the bottle.

As the sun set he had scavenged a pencil from the mess of his front room and began to write entries for those Tributes who had died with him in 50. All 47 of them. All 48 if you counted his soul. He'd stopped only to sharpen the lead before continuing on into dawn.

He had felt exhausted. But there was also a weight lifted. The names existed, their deaths were recognized.

He'd passed out from a lack of solid food – he hadn't eaten in days – and had had too much alcohol.

He looked up from the fraying copy in his hands to the dark corner of the room where an old bookcase held a collection of journals. Each one, he knew, was filled with the names of the dead. He'd filled one each with the life of his mother, of his brother, of Evaline – his family who had been destroyed by the Capitol as punishment for winning.

The one in his hands had been what was left of Maysilee Donner. He'd hidden it in his cushions since returning from 74 when it all had begun with the girl's common token. This one had been the hardest to fill not for lack of knowledge but for lack of words.

He thumbed through the pages as he lifted his flask to his lips. He was planning to take it easy today, he reminded himself. He needed to get things back on track. His fingers paused on his old recollection of the Maysilee he'd known prior to 50. She had been bright and beautiful, he remembered.

He could see the memory image of the three girls, Maysilee and her sister with the Everdeen girl, as they strolled through the town square. He'd never known them but to see them around in town, never in the Seam.

His hand snapped the journal closed and he threw it across the room towards the others. He didn't want to remember her today. He'd had enough of her haunting lately. His body leaned back into the couch and he rested his flask on his belly, closing his eyes to stop the spinning.

When he came to his stomach was growling viciously. He needed to eat something, at least, to fill the void that was causing these noises.

As his feet crested the porch to Katniss' house he sensed someone on his right. The Hawthorne boy was sitting in the porch swing watching the forest in silence. The dusk was slowly settling around them and the noises of the repairing District were ceasing. Haymitch paused his movements and followed the boy's gaze outward.

"She's in there somewhere. She's been gone since dawn. I thought she stopped hunting? That's what Sae said at least." It was as if he was talking aloud to himself.

"She'd never stop hunting, you should know that." He didn't understand how _he_ was able to abandon everything he knew about this girl. He knew he was just as bad.

"There's some stew in the kitchen if you want some," He must have heard his stomach from a mile away. Fucking ninja. Haymitch left the porch to search out the fresh meal and then returned; bowl in hand, to sit on the steps.

He'd wait out her return to. It was the least he could do. It was what he should have been doing all along. He was glad he hadn't brought his flask, just this once.

"I thought you said that you'd help her? She barely eats or talks. And the singing – I don't understand it. She never sang this much before." He sucked on the spoon, savouring the stew. He didn't need to address this issue. He could see the sun moving lower and in his periphery he could see the boy shift tensely. He relented.

"Coin didn't help. I'm sure blowing up her sister didn't help either." The moment was uncomfortable at his words. Always so sharp. He sipped some more of the broth as the silence dragged on. "She sang in her cell all the time. She has her moments. She could be worse, you know. At least she's no longer stringing herself up by her shoddy clothing. You know that the Capitol breaks things." He needed to emphasize how she was before she came back to 12. From what he'd seen already she was ten times better.

He finished his stew in silence as the light flickered lower. She needed to get back soon before the boy went on a rampage.

"I could kill him, Haymitch. I could set that whole house on fire with him still trapped in that bed. I'd watch it burn to the ground and take him with it." The words were cold. They were honest. He'd thought them too, so many times since he'd found her bruised and broken.

"Remember, _the Capitol breaks things_, boy. You have to know; he'd happily sit there and let you burn him alive. That's why he's better than us even though right now he's the worst of us." He rose to his feet to wash up his dish.

When he returned he found himself alone on the porch. His eyes scanned the encroaching darkness and paused where he saw two figures blending into the night. He could faintly hear the building argument from his Mockingjay. They were getting closer.

"Haymitch!" Her voice cut the air. It was assertive and harsh and reminded him of the girl on the train who'd thrown the knife before 74. He didn't move. Not even a word. "Haymitch," she was in front of him now, standing on the bottom step. This wouldn't be good. "You tell him I'm coming over, if it's the last goddamn thing you fools let me do."

She moves to push past him and he reaches for her arm, refusing to let this pass.

"Sweetheart, it would be."


	5. Chapter 5

He'd done what she'd asked. If it had been anyone else, any other suicidal fool, he'd have told them to do it themselves. But she'd come to him later after her fight with Gale. The fight that had grown from the moment on the porch to something more windowpane-shaking. She'd come with tears in her eyes, so rare for the Girl on Fire, to ask him quietly. She'd _begged_ him to see Peeta.

It was only after she left that he understood why she was asking _him_ for permission instead of just defying him. It had broken his walls down and he'd clutched at the bottle and the smooth chocolate leather journal he'd reserved for his Mockingjay. He hadn't yet started it. Hadn't wanted to ruin the pages with a sullied mind. When he finally wrote down her name, if he ever did, it would follow with an expiry date.

That was the rule.

The conversation hadn't gone exactly as planned. The boy had been resistant, insisting that she disappear forever. He couldn't tell if it was out of jealousy, hatred, or guilt. It had offended him, he knew, as he stood to leave. He was denying them both what they had been hurtling towards since 74.

He'd muttered a few choice words before returning to his house, hoping that they would settle and fester in the boy's mind.

He'd never seen the internal dynamics of a turbulent friendship. The extent of his friends had involved death and drunkenness apart from his warped childhood memories. It was strange, he found, as he watched Katniss and Gale interact with each other around the dinner table.

He didn't know why he was there, he just knew she'd grabbed his arm when Sae had entered the house, refusing to let him leave. As though she was terrified of being left to fend for herself. This was new. It troubled his semi-sober consciousness.

It made him want a drink.

He'd put a hold on that, keeping to a minimum intake of liquor as he tried to help her like he should have been doing all along. Also probably because his stock was getting low again. Sobriety wrecked his mind and body with fits of shaking and unsteady footing. His stomach would churn without the familiar burn. He loathed it.

It was a familiar fight he was seeing at the table. Similar to his geese in their pen making a show of themselves over the last crumb of bread. Only these two weren't battling for the last remaining morsel – it was more like they were battling for the last emotions of each other. It was awkward. Maybe he was just noticing the tension as avoidance for how much he wanted a goddamn drink.

He turned his attention back to his baked potato and ate his meal in silence.

The awkward meals became a nightly thing. He had even made the effort of not visiting at all to avoid them. But she would always come to his house and offer him food as a lure. She'd always look so fragile. It reminded him of the first time he'd met Annie Cresta after her games.

It had been during 72 when she'd somehow ended up back in the Capitol. He was surprised to find her napping in his chair outside of Finnick Odair's hospital room after having not been seen or heard of since her Victory Tour. He had heard some rumour that she just wasn't right anymore. He'd even had a drink for her.

He sat across from her for an hour before she stirred, sitting up and lightly petting her hair into place. He could see her small hands twitch and grasp each other tightly as he stared. She was nervous and frail looking.

"What're you doing here?" He asked. She looked to the floor.

"Finnick... He's sick. I just needed..." He could barely hear the whisper as it trailed out. He watched as her gaze unfocused and she looked around the wing. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Finnick had been admitted for treatment after his latest trick had gone sour and he hadn't stopped bleeding due to the drugs in his system. Haymitch had gotten the call from the nurse who'd found his number on Finnick's kin list and he'd had been summoned to keep watch as Finn's blood levels were slowly returned to normal. It was easier to sit in the sterile hallway than watch the Games. Besides, he hadn't needed to spend any more time on his Tributes as they were already dead. It had made sense.

He'd mostly ignored Annie's presence until the nurse motioned him into the room as Finnick returned to consciousness. She watched him with careful eyes as he entered, leaving her in the hallway. Finn was groggy and pale he noticed as he sat down. He rested his head in his hands, struggling to breathe with relief. He let out a long sigh as he felt the fingers in his hair.

"At least I can still fuck," Haymitch's head had shot up at the words, his eyes screwed tight and a pained expression on his face.

"What?" He sputtered. Finnick grinned sadly at the sober emotions playing across his features.

"I was awake earlier and they were testing. Guess they wanted to make sure they didn't lose one of their best _ass_ets." He was still smiling but the teeth were gone and his eyes were tight. Haymitch shook his head.

"Never damage the goods, that's what they say." They sat quietly for a moment, reminded of every torture they'd endured together before Haymitch had passed into a new level of alcoholic depravity. "Finn, why's Annie Cresta here?" He noticed instantly the way Finn's body tensed and his eyes glazed over with a sheen of panic at the name.

"Get her, Haymitch, please." His voice was tight. Haymitch stuck his head out the door to where Annie sat with her hands gripped white. He motioned her in and she nearly leapt on him to get past. She faltered slightly when Finn came into view, her posture tensing as though preparing for battle. Haymitch bowed out, realizing he didn't want to be here. Didn't want to know these secrets. Didn't want to feel jealous of whatever it was that they had.

He'd left the Capitol at the end of the Games, bitter and dejected and more drunk than when he'd arrived.

Tonight's dinner varied little. He came, he ate, he listened for the bickering to begin. But it didn't. Katniss was faded, he saw, as she sat at the table. Her fork pushed the grain on her plate from side to side. It was as though she wasn't even here. He hated her for hiding.

"Katniss," He said her name out loud, hoping to draw her out. She didn't acknowledge him as Gale did. Haymitch could feel the frustration rolling off of Gale who could do nothing to bring her back from wherever she was. He'd tried, Haymitch had seen, when she wandered off in the mornings and he'd tried to chase her down only to force a scream from her throat. He'd watched from his geese pen as Gale had jumped backwards as if burned by the sound. He'd been sober enough to feel the rejection from his distance.

She had to come back this time. This was getting ridiculous. She needed to get back to the old Katniss. He tapped the table with his fingers, itching to see if she would have the same reaction to him. He met Gale's weary eyes and reached for her hand.

She reacted.

It was lightning fast as she burst to her feet and jammed the fork in the table, narrowly missing his knuckles. Her eyes were still distant as she moved to lie on the couch instead. His heart slowed when he reached for the flask he kept in his sock. He needed this tonight.

When darkness fell he moved to rinse the dishes and then return home, haunting images burning across his vision as the black of night closed in. He could hear his geese in the yard. He could hear footsteps. Footsteps that weren't his own but were quick and heavy. He spun around as the porch door slammed open and the sound of a fist hitting flesh cracked the open air.

His pace quickened as he noticed Peeta on the ground with Gale finally releasing his pent up rage on something tangible. He pulled at the boy's shoulders and heard the scream behind him. Fucking hell. It's the opportunity he needs to shove Gale off and towards the house. He reaches to pull Peeta up, his only option to put him back where he belongs.

"She wanted to come here, not the other way around. You can't surprise her like that right now," His lungs gasp for breath as he drags him back to his house, "She's not Katniss right now." The boy spins around like a tightly wound spring, his mouth bloody. Haymitch's mind pulses with an image of Enobaria after her most notable kill.

"I don't know how to help! I'm only hurting her!" He can feel the rage and sorrow in his words. He's too sober for this. He reaches forward and grips Peeta's shoulder, holding tight to try to keep it together. He pulls open the door and pushes Peeta inside, not sure if he's more frustrated at himself or the boy.

"Just _wait_." He lets the door clap shut and turns, his path marked back to where he can hear Katniss still screaming. He pushes into the room and sees Gale holding a bag of ice to his hand and looking down at the curled body before him.

"She won't stop screaming! What the fuck am I supposed to do Haymitch? I can't help her. She blames me for _Prim_." The last words are quiet and damning. He hadn't realized the extent of the salt Gale's presence had rubbed in her wounds. He glares at Gale, redirecting his anger.

"Get out so I can deal with this." He must have been waiting for the excuse to flee, Haymitch thinks, as Gale steals out of the room. He's suddenly alone with this broken girl. Her screams are choked now, mostly tiny shouts that rip from her chest. It tears at him like little knives. He moves to sit on the couch, determined to wait her out.

It's not long before she gives in to a session of humming. His body is cold at the memories rushing through him. He's muscles are sore. He hates being able to _feel_.

"Katniss, get up." His voice is firm. She stops humming. He moves to his feet to crouch near her. "Get _up_." He can see her coming back slowly. He reaches out his hand, ready to help her when she's ready. It isn't long before she's gripping his hand to her chest and she's pulling him tightly against her. He hates this, it's like whiplash. He blinks his eyes free of tears.

He never wanted this. Never wanted to feel again.

"Go to bed, sweetheart." He whispers, no sarcasm in his voice. She withdraws from him and heads towards the stairs, pausing before she hits the first step.

"I'm sorry you're stuck with me, Haymitch." Her voice is soft in the dark of the night.

He makes his way home and folds onto his couch, lifting a bottle to his lips and absently picking at his shirt hem. His eyes land upon the hearth of his fireplace, a small coal still burning from the fire he'd stoked earlier. He pitches the bottle forward and it cracks, the alcohol sparking a flash of flame to light the room.

When it burns out it's dark and he's finally able to stop feeling.


	6. Chapter 6

She didn't ask him to dinner tonight. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

He sits at his kitchen table, bottle in hand. He didn't mind not being asked – he was glad for it – but the immediate change in routine was concerning. She hadn't even explained why. Hadn't been by today. He figured she was probably spending the day in bed after yesterday's excitement. Still, he wondered.

He'd faintly heard last night the yelling start up again in the distance as he'd lay motionless on his couch. He hadn't been sure if it was Peeta or Gale or an unknown drunk off in the District. It had definitely been male.

If it had even been real at all, he still wasn't sure of that. His mind had a way of playing tricks on him – screams of pain were a commonality in his imagination. In his memories.

His attention was wandering as his fingers tapped on the wood. What was he even doing to help? What could he do? He knew too well that these wounds, these kids, were still so fresh. He had been in their place once. He'd been tortured by the Capitol in other horrific ways too. He didn't want to think about it. He took another swig from his bottle and laid his head on his hands.

He used to be used like Finn. He thought when he first won the Games that he would be free but the Capitol had come at him, had taken his family from him, all for outwitting them. He'd been summoned back every year for the Games, had been dragged back throughout to meet with 'appointments'. He hadn't been able to fuck himself up fast enough.

His wit had failed him and he hadn't figured out how to escape this game that was worse than _the_ Games. His only option had been to drink. To drink and never grow attached to anything they could take away from him. He'd become a recluse, become a joke, become a drunk, because it was the only way he could escape this new torture.

In all his time in the Capitol he'd developed few friendships – if you could call them that. Chaff had been his pub anchor – always ready to drink himself under the table with him. He'd also given him his sanity, in a way. The journal idea had been pivotal in him surviving past the first five years of mentoring – they'd provided the outlet and Chaff had been the one to give it.

Effie had been _his_ Effie. His mind recoiled and redirected its thoughts. Even the liquor couldn't supress the sadness that came with her name.

Finn had been something else. He'd been something Haymitch had hated when he first arrived. Hated for everything he represented. The Capitol had paired them together when the boy was still embarrassingly young – too young to play _this_ game. He'd been told to show him the ropes and take mentoring to a new level. He'd tried to make it easy, taking the brunt of the client's needs for the boy, helping him figure out how to put his emotions away in a corner and close himself off. But he hadn't been able to stop what was happening to him. Hadn't been able to change anything. Hadn't been able to save him.

It was worse than a Tribute in an Arena. It was real and lasting and every time he saw the boy he was more strung out and more broken than the last.

It hadn't been long before his alcoholism had caught up with him and the Capitol had finally removed him from dick duty. But Finn had been left to pick up the slack and Haymitch had known, had seen, that without him to keep the client in line the boy had been submerged even deeper.

He'd never regretted anything more than he did Finnick Odair. That is, until Katniss came into the picture.

He would always be trying to make it right for her, he knew that now.

His mind floats back to the present and he struggles to think of how he can help her adjust. He remembers her actions at the announcement of the Quell and knows she won't take to the bottle. That's not an option. He doesn't want her to be like him anyway. He takes another drink.

It's only after he finishes the bottle that he knows his only avenue is to be _present_. His mind shudders knowing that it will mean more sobriety. But he'd do it for her. He'd do anything for her.

His feet push him to the door. He needs to know why there was no dinner. That's how he'll start.

When he reaches Katniss' porch he hears the argument approaching from behind.

"Christ, can we just drop it already? I took you over there so you'd stop trying to run off all the time. What more do you want?" Gale's voice was strained.

"I want you to let me make my own choices! I'm not a child!" Haymitch could hear the tired way she fought back. As though this fight was common. He made an effort to blend into the shadows hoping to hear more before they arrived. He needed to know for sure if Gale's presence in the District was helping.

"Catnip, you spend half of your day acting like a child. Rory is more grown up than you are and he's only 13. You can barely hold a conversation without drifting off. How am I supposed to treat you?"

"Like a friend, Gale. That's what friends do." They'd stopped on the lawns. He watched as Gale lifted a hand and placed it on her shoulder, she shrunk back. "Please don't. You know I'm not comfortable when you do that." Haymitch's body tensed, ready to fight. Ready to protect.

"What _changed_? We used to touch all the time! We used to be close! I wanted to _marry_ _you_ and now I can't even _touch_ you!" The anger lashed out like a solar flare. Marriage was a new one, Haymitch knew. She didn't respond, instead turning to head towards the house again. Gale reached out, grasping at her hand until she spun back.

"I don't want to be touched or prodded or pulled at ever again! I don't want to marry you and I don't want you to treat me like a child! I'm broken, yes, but dammit Gale, I'm not destroyed and I'm not weak. I just want you to be my _friend_. I want to forget what you've done and what I've done and I want to just…" Her voice drifted off and Haymitch could see her shoulders slump. He could hear the sobs welling up. He could see Gale resisting the urge to put his arms around her.

"I can be a friend, Catnip. I can be anything you need. But I need you to be okay first, that's all. I'm worried you aren't. I'm worried you'll let him hurt you again." It was a quiet admission and Haymitch felt like he was intruding.

"He's hurting too, Gale. I just want to help him. Nobody else is helping him, they never have."

Haymitch stepped out on the porch into the light, the truth of Peeta always being left behind pulling him forward. Gale looked up and met his eyes as he leaned heavily on the banister, his body swaying slightly.

"We'll help him Katniss, but we need to do it carefully. You can't just barrel in to this, Peeta is dangerous right now." Haymitch's words ring out quietly and she whips around, finally noticing his presence. Her arms are strung tightly around her chest and she looks like half of what used to be the Girl on Fire.

"Oh, yeah? You're going to help him? Because you've done _so much_ for me! You can't help us anymore than you can help yourself and you know it." He tenses, ready to spar if only to see the flicker of flame grow.

"Sweetheart, you've spent the past few months trying to kill yourself in between lullaby sessions. I wouldn't call you an expert on mental health and recovery either. Besides, I still have that promise to keep." He needed her to understand that he would help him to help her. "Now, can we go inside and have something to eat? I missed dinner."

It was almost dawn when the squawking of his geese permeated his skull. He had a headache. His bones hurt. He pulled his flask free from under the pillow and contemplated it. He wanted a drink today. He deserved a drink today.

Pulling himself free of the sheets he stepped into his clothes and made his way to his liquor stores, grabbing himself a bottle of the clear fluid. He popped the lip and took a gulp, enjoying the pain of it coating his insides. Relief. His eyes scanned the shelves and he counted the remaining bottles, 1..2..3… Gone.

He needed to get more.

It wasn't long before he was stumbling away from Rylan's stall – he'd only been awake to count stock before the next shipment – towards the Victor's Village. The public commentary varied little from its usual fare – town gossip, drunken Victor, half-naked Victor…

He paused mid-step and swung around to listen to the two women walking past. He trekked along behind, keeping a distance but still listening.

"I don't know why they sent him back; _clearly_ the boy isn't right in the head."

"Oh, but think about it! He has nowhere else to go. He lost all his family remember? I'd be crying in the gardens too if I was him!"

"That's because you're weak, Milly. He's a Victor. He should behave –" The woman turned abruptly as Haymitch crashed forward into her. "Can I _help_ you?" Her voice was like ice.

"Yes, you can shove your opinions up your ass and leave that kid out of your boring gossip, you old slag." Her face fell and he sauntered away towards the 'Gardens'. She had to be an import from another District – the only gardens in 12 were in the Meadow.

The gossip seemed to intensify, Haymitch found, the closer he got. It got meaner too. His pace quickened as he neared the green area. He saw him then, a topless Peeta flat on his back, his scars almost glowing in the early morning light.

He slowly takes a seat next to the boy. It's time to start fixing this.

"That's funny, I didn't know you to be an exhibitionist." He didn't want to be mean, but he knew the pity wouldn't be welcome. And he only had half a bottle of liquor left. "Peeta," He sees the boy move quickly and tenses, unsure of what's coming. He watches as the boy empties his stomach onto the green, his own stomach recoiling as the alcohol sloshes uncomfortably.

"I didn't hurt her this time did I? Is that why you're here? She made it to your house?" His words send shivers down his spine as he looks at the boy. What was he talking about? Clearly he was talking about Katniss, but it was dawn and she'd gone to bed before he'd left last night. When did he hurt her? Where did he hurt her?

His mind races as hundreds of scenarios start spinning through his mind.

"She didn't tell me anything, the local populace did." His words are a tight response as he moves to his feet. He knows that he has to find her. He has to find her and make sure she's alive. And then kill her if she is. Kill her for making him become so goddamn concerned with her wellbeing. Goddamn her.

He's stumbling towards Peeta's house before he even realized he was walking. He didn't want to find a body. He didn't want to find her destroyed. He didn't know what to find. Fuck. His heart was racing as he jogged the last few steps.

He didn't pause at the door this time. He's through the kitchen and staring down at Katniss, safe and sound; playing with the rope that Finn had given her in 13. His heart clenches with the sight. So like Annie Cresta but in her hunting gear she _looks_ like Katniss. The images don't compute properly. She looks broken.

He lets his body collapse into a chair and he watches her tie and untie the rope, her hands red with the effort.

He's still there when Peeta returns to the house. The moment is quiet and tentative – they both know that it will soon be broken. He can see Peeta in his periphery standing in the kitchen, watching. The boy is just as lost as him in this moment. And then it's like a gear clicking into place and he recognizes the same lost feeling in himself being reflected in Peeta.

Neither of them can pull her back from this edge. Not now.

Time stretches on until he hears it across the yards. The brute force that will shatter the quiet.

He clears his throat when Gale enters, if only to save the boy from another beating. The bruise from the fight still lingering on his cheek. He watches as Gale turns and rests his eyes on Katniss' frame, reaching out for her instinctively. Haymitch and Gale both know that it's a mistake before it happens and yet still Gale's hand collides and his touch sends her spiraling again. He watches as Gale's emotions flicker over his face and he knows this time is one too many.

He looks to where Peeta's face has drained of colour and he clearly fights for control of himself. The scream has set them all on the edge and Haymitch is ready to pick her up and flee before everything breaks. He sits still in his chair, waiting.

He doesn't pay attention to the conversation happening in front of him. He's tired of talking _about_ her.

"The knots are endless m'dear," He whispers under his breath. He sees her body shift as her attention is directed towards Peeta. In an instant his body is moving forward to grab her as he watches her throw herself at Peeta. He's tense and hyper-aware of how this could go. Fight or flight.

She's quiet, no screams. It's the sad exchange between Peeta and Gale that has him moving out the door and following Gale as he departs.

"Where are you going?" He's angry. It's abandonment. Gale doesn't stop.

"I've got a family to take care of. And I can't compete against that!" His arm is thrown up in the wind.

"This isn't a competition. You said you'd be her friend – that's what she needs right now. You're abandoning her." They've reached Katniss' porch.

"I know I won't win – I'm not stupid. But I need time to adjust to being a 'friend' and right now I can't. We fight about everything and anything. You've seen it. It's not getting any better." Haymitch pulls in a breath, he's so sick of this fight. "Either way, this is no more abandonment than what you do every single fucking time you pick up a bottle. So fuck it." The crack of the door swinging closed breaks into his mind and he knows Gale is right.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Worked too much today. I don't really like this chapter. I think I just needed to oust Gale for a bit.<br>_


	7. Chapter 7

Gale's gone and she has nowhere else to go. He knew that. He'd tried to hide in his house – to seem oblivious to the obvious problem facing them. But Sae had come to track him down after figuring out the shift and had told him she was coming to stay with him.

He'd pretended that it was alright. He'd even tried to tidy a little.

But inside it ate at him. He knew he wasn't going to be much help – he couldn't be. She'd end up rotting here with him because he wouldn't be able to track her meals or force her out of bed like Gale had. Worse, she'd see that he was just as bad. He couldn't hide his own terrors from her with her under the same roof. This was going to be terrible.

He continued tidying the front room, slowly putting things away and tossing out old trash. It was the least he could do. It was all he could do to keep his mind busy. The day's bottle sat alone on the kitchen counter. Sae had asked him to not drink today. This was the worst plan ever.

When Sae pulls open the door and helps her take a few things upstairs it's awkward. He doesn't move from the kitchen, slowly watching them climb. This isn't a good idea. His hands worry the dishcloth he'd been using to wipe down the counters.

He knows he has to pull it together. Setting down the cloth he puts on his facade and heads towards the stairs. They're in 'her' room now, talking quietly. He feels like a fearful child as he approaches the door, slowly looking inside.

"I'll still be over every day to prepare dinner. You're on your own for breakfast and lunch. If you have any issues, Thom is just down the road, so don't you worry." He watches as Sae prattles on, he can see Katniss nodding.

"We're gonna be fine, Sae. We're not children." His voice is strained. He clears his throat. Sae meets his eyes and lifts her sturdy frame from the bed.

"You can sure act like one," she pauses, setting a hand on his arm. When her eyes meet his he sees clearly the threat that is being laid down. He can't fuck this up. Not this time. He nods and she heads for the stairs. He watches as Katniss spreads her hands over the threadbare bedding.

"Let's just pretend like this isn't happening, alright?" He doesn't know what else to say – he can't say it'll be alright, he can't say he's happy to have her and he damn well won't pretend like the whole scenario isn't the worst idea ever. He catches her nod and then turns to leave, heading to his own room to hide.

He hears the knock on the door and ignores it. He's not getting up. He hurts too much to move. His body is drying out and he feels like death warmed up.

The knock sounds again, impatient.

"Haymitch, I think I broke your stove." He hears her voice through the door. He doesn't care.

"Fuck off and fix it then," he grumbles into his pillow. The old Katniss would have had a crass remark or a bucket of water to douse him with. He should be drunk. Gale had been right. He rolled over and tried to suffocate himself in his linens as he heard footsteps retreat down the hallway.

He's not getting out of bed yet.

It's late. It smells delicious.

He pulls himself free of the nightmare he was having and puts his feet on the floor. His body doesn't want to cooperate today. Slowly and clumsily he stands and puts on pants and a shirt he picked off the floor. He doesn't care. His stomach leads him downstairs to the kitchen where Sae is toasting some bread and cutting apart a pasta dish.

He's only ever seen those in the Capitol. His mouth waters.

Katniss is sitting at the table, her fingers running along the designs he'd carved in so long ago. The scene looks serene and he blunders into it with his shirt flapping and his heavy footsteps on the cold floor. He scrapes out a chair and lowers himself down slowly. He can feel Katniss' eyes watching him as he rubs his temples.

"Sae fixed your stove. Apparently I don't know how to cook. Or your stove is so old that it predates _me_." He grins as the palm of his hands rubs out his eyes.

"Self-reliance. I feel that's one of those steps that the doc would help you with if you'd pick up the phone once in a while."

"You don't have a phone, Haymitch. Can't call anyone without a phone." Her quip is light and familiar. He still doesn't think this is a good idea. He can feel it in his bones. That could also be the sobriety. He can't tell.

"Okay, eat up. I've gotta get home to my grandbaby." Sae says as she places the plates of food in front of them. Katniss says goodbye and shows her out as he begins to eat.

The house hadn't had this much activity in decades. He wanted silence back. His eyes scan the room noticing how clean it is. He'd only scratched the surface of the dirt but now, now it has shine. He wonders to himself how long it had taken her. This wasn't right – she shouldn't be cleaning. He watches as she returns to the table and lifts the fork to her mouth.

"You don't have to clean up. My mess is my own; I'll take care of it." He can't be a burden to her. That's not how this works.

"Don't worry, I won't. I just needed a clean space to fix some meat for Sae. I got carried away." He nods in acceptance and eats his meal in silence. When they finish he washes down the dishes and retires to the sofa to watch the fire as she remains seated at the table.

When he hears the soft footsteps moving across the floor he turns and watches her carefully as she sits in the chair to his right. It's old and dingy but high backed with wings. He'd spent too many nights drunkenly passed out on that chair.

"Haymitch, you don't have to be sober just because I live here." He won't meet her eyes. "I mean, hey, great to save a liver, but this doesn't have to change anything." He hadn't been doing it because she was living here, he knew, he'd been doing it to try to help. He couldn't admit that. Instead he shook his head and reached for the flask hidden in his coffee table. He took a quick sip and put it back. Just to deal with the edge.

"What am I supposed to do with you, girl?" His throat is rough on the words.

"I don't know. Sae said I could either live here or she'd burn down my house – I didn't really have a choice in this matter." She laughs lightly and it's the first time he's heard her laugh in so long.

"How about we just make sure you eat. You can do what you want the rest of the time. No stupidity though," he watches as she meets his eyes. There's a threat there and he knows she's understood him. No fucking around with Peeta until things were calmed down.

It was all he could ask of her.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the fire crackle in the hearth. It was steady and not as bad as he'd imagined it would be.

The days passed quietly. He picked up the bottle again but consumed oh so little – just barely enough to cover the aches and pains. Not nearly enough to choke out the dreams. But he was managing. Each night when he woke up with a sound caught in his throat that he would swallow back down only to realize that he was woken by the sound of _her_ screams.

She apparently didn't sleep well either. It killed him, every night.

When he woke today it was different. There were no screams filling the house – instead it was silent and dense. He noticed that the sounds had been his own again and it chilled his bones. He struggled to his feet to grab the bottle that was on his dresser. He clung to it as he wandered downstairs to his front room. He needed to escape from his bed.

He'd almost expected to find her, still awake, lounging in front of the fire. She wasn't there.

His exhausted soul collapsed onto the couch. Tonight he was going to drink. Tonight he was allowed to drink. Tonight he was going to work on Finn's journal.

The third journal that he'd started to fill with Finnick Odair was a hardcover black leather piece with twice as many pages as he gave due to the first two. He'd realized too late that he would need more pages to remember this boy.

It was a collection of thoughts, recollections, nightmares and dreams. He paid very little value to the actual timeline of events when he wrote – it just didn't need any formality. His fingers thumbed the pages as he scanned where he'd left off. It had been a small memory of the boy, just before his Victory Tour, when the Capitol had introduced them.

He'd remembered the sweat on the boy's palms and the anger that had been fueled into his blood. He'd hated him for being so young. Snow had clapped with joy.

"Finally a chance for you to share your unique set of _skills_ Haymitch! This is fantastic!" The man had been almost giddy. His stomach had churned. The boy had stayed silent.

He'd written that he thought the boy hadn't even known what was happening at the time.

He reached for the pen and took a swig from his bottle. He needed to record his dream, if only just to get it out of his head. It was a conversation that they'd had before the Quell, one that had spun the fire into a fury inside of him as he'd realized he wasn't alone in his plan.

Finn had come to him, asking to be ally's with his Tributes. He'd brushed off the idea, determined to only focus on bringing Katniss home – he'd known he couldn't save them all. But Finn had pushed harder for him to listen. Had kept the bottle from his lips while he spun webs of words and secrets.

The boy had done so much more with his 'appointments' than he ever had.

"We've got one shot left, Haymitch. One. And if it fails, then they've destroyed everyone who could have changed things." His hand scribbled messily across the page as he remembered. "The Districts love us. They'd follow us to their deaths. But it's like the original game designers had known how 75 years would bring uneasiness. This Quell wasn't a plant like everyone thinks. These guys _knew_ that it was too long to keep up the Games without some adversity. So they put in the failstop trigger to utterly destroy any revolution.

"The Games were so designed with breaking down the Districts and forcing them into compliance that they were meant to change the way people change. It takes decades to build enough hatred so they waited longer. Don't you see?" Finn had grabbed his shoulder, begging to be heard, as they sat in the noisy bar. The whole story had seemed so calculated, so conspiracy-like, that he'd scoffed at the thought.

Always in his dream would it flicker then to the night of the Interviews where they had all stood with their hands clasped together. It always had made him startle awake, a feeling of being strangled choking off his breath.

His hand stopped on the page as he finished the thought. He finished off the bottle and put the journal down, spent. It wasn't long before he was snoring into the couch cushions as the alcohol coursed through his system and warmed his blood.


	8. Chapter 8

He wasn't dreaming this. It was too real. He turned over on the couch as he felt another stab of something dull in his side. What the hell?

His confusion was instantly replaced when he saw her pulling the journals off the shelf and throwing them towards him. He ducked as Wiress was hurled past his head.

"What the fuck are you doing you damn fool!" He was on his feet and at her side instantly as she pulled on the bookcase itself, willing it to crush her as it came forward. His hands grasped her around the waist and he pulled her to him before it crashed to the floor. He could feel her hands struggling to push free as she fought like a trapped animal. She was raging. He held tighter, willing the moment to pass.

The anger and adrenaline was pumping through his system, growing more quickly with every stomp of her foot on his toes. His hands clamped together and he held her against him for dear life. She was struggling to be free from his grip, from this house, from her own skin. He knew if he let go she would find a way out and he'd be forced to watch her burn up in front of him.

He felt her jam her heel into his ankle. Reacting, he pushed her forward onto the ground and used his weight to hold her down – it was all he could think to do when he noticed the feral look in her eyes. Her bloodshot and tear-streaked eyes.

She wasn't Katniss. She wasn't the Girl on Fire. And she most definitely was _not_ like Annie. She was a new breed.

His body trapped her to the floor until her fit of struggling stuttered out and he could feel her heavy sobs permeating his body. He lifted himself slowly away from her and sat back on his heels, waiting for any movement.

"Please… _Please_," He could hear her plea in between her sobs. He knew what she was asking for. Asking for the one thing he refused to give. Release from this world. It broke something inside him.

"I can't." His mind was struggling to hold it together as the adrenaline began to burn off. The time passed slowly as he waited for her to return to some semblance of normality. When the sobs finally petered out he reached forward and pulled her thin frame to him. Resting his cheek on her head he held to her like a buoy in a storm. He couldn't let go. Not yet. Not ever.

They held together for what seemed like hours as the light began to filter into the front room. When she began to stir again he pulled her to her feet and led her up to her room to rest as he deposited her on the bed and pulled in a chair to wait her out. He itched for a drink.

He placed her plate of open-faced sandwiches on the bedside table as he returned to his chair. His stomach had grown hungry as the time had elapsed. He could see her stirring back to consciousness as he ate in silence. The look of betrayal in her eyes when she opened them tore at him.

"Why do you have one for everyone but me?" She lay with her head on her hands. Her voice was raspy and angry. She didn't understand.

"Are you dead yet?"

"I'm trying but nobody will fucking let me make up my own goddamn mind anymore. Besides, you have one for Peeta. I saw it," he shook his head slowly; "Don't deny it! Christ, don't you dare fucking deny it! Do you really hate me that much Haymitch? I'm not even worth remembering?"

She really didn't get it.

"I could try to explain this but you've just contradicted yourself. If you don't want to live, why do you care if you're remembered? Do you see where that doesn't make sense?" He didn't want to address any questions about his journals. He wanted to deflect. He watched as she slowly moved to a sitting position in the center of her bed. He could see the pain flash across her eyes from the unavoidable bruises he'd been forced to cause in keeping her contained.

"Fuck you, Haymitch." Her voice was cold. He could win this battle of wills, he knew.

"Eat your lunch." He took another bite of his sandwich and ducked as the plate came soaring towards him. "You'd think your throwing aim would at least be comparable." He was pushing buttons, trying to bring out the old Katniss. It was working.

"Tell me why or get the hell out!" He shrugged and lifted to his feet, heading for the doorway. He felt the soft thump of her pillow against his back as he retreated, pulling the door closed behind him. He didn't go far, instead choosing to listen carefully down the hall for any signs of distress from her room.

He hadn't seen her flip from utter mania to despair so quickly before. It was shocking to his senses and it made his blood run cold. He knew he was in over his head and the only thing he could do was stay close.

When Sae arrives to prepare dinner they both have on disguises. They both pretend that nothing has transpired that was worth any attention. They both contain themselves to pleasantries and dull quips at each other. He could tell that even though Sae was picking up on the change, she wouldn't act on it.

As he wiped down the dishes at the end of the meal he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. He didn't want to talk about this. This was his privacy she was prying into. She was already invading his silence. What more did she want?

"I read about Finnick. I didn't know." His shoulders tense. He will _not_ talk about this with her. There are too many lines to cross. He grips the plate tighter in his hands as he hears the scrape of the chair behind him. The footsteps pad away from him and he's instantly relieved. He finishes with the dishes, turning to watch her sort through the mess she'd created.

Hesitantly he joins her, grabbing a hold of the bookcase and struggling to force it vertical again. He reaches down to gently grab an old journal filled with Tributes. His mind is racing with the memories.

He knows every binding by touch, knows the names and the contents and the tales of death that line the pages. Nobody was ever supposed to see these. Nobody but him.

He slowly begins to return them to their proper shelves, restoring the cracking leather and torn sheets to their rightful position. When he happens upon Evaline's journal his heart skips. It's been too many years since he'd held her.

His mind wanders back to the day of the Reaping when he'd woken up next to her small frame. They'd spent the night together, their last and only. He'd loved her more than anything, the way her hair smelt, her wits, and the way her smile twisted on her lips. She'd been too smart for him, he'd known. When his name was pulled he'd known he was being punished for loving her. Knew he wouldn't come back to this girl he loved.

And he hadn't. The Capitol had taken her from him before he'd even had a chance to tell her how he'd felt.

He's pulled back to the present by Katniss' voice breaking the quiet.

"Haymitch, I honestly don't understand. Why does Peeta have a book but I don't?" He puts Evaline back on the shelf and twists to sit in the winged arm chair. The breath he'd been holding in gusts out and he's exhausted.

"I thought he was dead." It's simple and clear. He doesn't want to say more. He's guilty that he gave up hope so quickly. He can feel her watching him, can feel the tension crackling around them. His fingers grip the chair arms waiting for the onslaught of anger. It never comes.

"He's not dead. He's next door. You should burn it." She makes it seem so easy. He wishes it was that easy.

"I can't burn it. Once it's started I can't stop – I need it to remember things." And the words couldn't be truer. He knows that if he were to burn this copy that he'd struggle to remember so much about that boy. The journal reads like a timeline from the Quell through the war – the only one that reads linear. He remembers how the first few entries focused on Peeta's probable death and how when he reads them he now recognizes so much more. As the entries progress they transform into doubts and finally uncontrollable anger at the threat he poses by continuing to live.

He's not proud of the things he's written. But they won't, _can't_, be unwritten. He needs to remember that.

"I didn't realize you had all of these, I guess." She's moved on from Peeta and he's thankful. "Can I read them?" He doesn't want her to. He knows it's not going to stop her.

"Katniss, they're not sunshine and rainbows. Everything written is about the dead. They're probably not even coherent." She nods in agreement, turning the pages of one of the Tribute journals in her hands.

"I know. I guess I just want to understand." It's the first time in such a long time that he's heard something so... Clear headed from her.

He still doesn't want to commit to giving permission. He also doesn't want to fight over this. He reaches for the hidden drawer on the side table and pulls loose another hidden flask. Lifting it to his lips he settles back into the cushions of the chair, determined to last the night. Determined to make sure whatever she reads doesn't throw her over the edge again.

Later, when he wakes, he's troubled to find that he's still in the chair. He must have passed out here. He knows it wouldn't be the first time. But now it's different. She's sitting on the floor in front of him, her head nuzzled into his knee as her fingers grip tightly to his. He can see the small pile of journals she must have started reading resting on the floor near her feet.

Finn part one, Peeta, Tributes from 58. Maysilee sits half open on her lap.

It hurts. Deep inside his chest his heart clenches with the memories that fill his mind. He focuses on the girl at his feet, taking in her sharp angles and thin frame. Her breathing is as steady as his heartbeat as she sleeps. They have so much in common and he hates it. Slowly he pushes her hair from her face recognizing the tight look on her features. She's not dreaming of puppy dogs and flowers.

Carefully, he shifts her away, moving them instead to the couch where he adjusts to sit with her head in his lap as she sprawls the length of the cushions. It's surprising how dead to the world she is. How unresponsive she is. He wonders how long they can keep up this charade of living.

It's dawn when he's brought back to consciousness by the sound of the front door opening. He doesn't bother to readjust their position as he lies with a leg on the couch and his face pushed into the back cushion. Their state is innocent and he's got nothing to be ashamed of. Except that he's still drunk. He listens as the boots clunk into the kitchen and a solid package is placed on the table.

He stretches to meet Thom's eyes over the couch as the boy notices their state. He scowls and turns to leave. Haymitch doesn't care. He knows he'd never do anything to hurt this girl. He'd give his life for this girl. He settles back down and drifts off again, thankful of the easy way her breathing lulls him back to sleep.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Don't fret, change is coming!<br>_


	9. Chapter 9

Somehow he's not surprised to find her gone from her bed. He's not surprised to find that she's being a fool. Not surprised to find that she's been spending her mornings and some of her nights with Peeta. It makes his blood boil, but he's not surprised.

He wasn't sure when it had started exactly. He'd caught her wandering in for food on the odd morning but he'd chalked it up to her being in the forest early. It hadn't clicked for him then.

But it did now as her bow remained tucked into its corner in her room and her bed was untouched from when he'd deposited her on it after her latest journal reading session. She'd been withdrawn ever since she closed the final pages on Mags. He understood that.

He didn't feel betrayed. Nor did he feel frustrated. It was a mix of anger and a sadness that ran deep. She was being so careless. So foolish. He couldn't save her if she didn't want to be saved. It was all for naught.

There was no choice, he knew, as he wandered over to Peeta's house. It was a dark shadow in the rising sun. It was ominous.

When his palm pressed open the door he wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting. Perhaps a lurid display? An event of tragedy? Either option would have been better than the sounds he heard emanating from a hidden place. He could feel goose bumps grow and a shiver on his spine with every sound that met his ears. They were strangled and terrifying.

He gripped harder to his knife and his bottle. He hated the edge he felt with every moment he spent in this house. It haunted him. Why didn't she _think_?

With caution Haymitch began searching the main level for the location of the noise. As he padded closer to the basement door the sounds grew and he knew the boy was down there. Pulling in a breath he opened the door and looked down into the darkened room. The light streaming in illuminated his dark silhouette. He could feel the darkness pressing back upon him. He'd find her later – she couldn't be far. He couldn't abandon this boy again.

"Want a drink?" It was all he could give to soothe the pain in this kid. He sat himself down on the top step, unsure if it was safe. There was no answer as the boy remained huddled against the cement wall.

As time stretched out he heard the soft footsteps that often filled his own silence. She _was_ here. That fool of a girl. He took a swig of his drink, sure that he would need it to control himself. He was hard to miss as he sat in the doorway.

"You need a shower Haymitch," It was light and almost playful. Inside he raged at the worry he'd built. At her childishness. "What're you doing here anyways?" So unobservant – how could she not notice this boy in pain? He watched as the realization clicked in her head and she looked past him to where Peeta sat in the dark. "Oh, Peeta."

It wasn't safe. Could she not see it? Did she not _understand_? He grabbed at her arm desperately as he was reminded of the time she'd leapt in front of a whip. He couldn't watch the scenario that was playing in his mind happen in real time. She was so determined. Slowly she peeled his hand loose and escaped down the staircase.

His body tensed as he watched her get close. The stress was going to destroy him. And then it was done. She knelt in front of the boy and she provided the comfort he could never offer. He felt the bile rise in his throat with the realization that he couldn't help these two. That they could only help each other.

Pushing to his feet he rushed for the door and burst into the daylight that shrank his pupils and bathed him in brightness, fighting the anger and dark that threatened to overcome him. He struggled home as his mind raged – he knew this time it had been okay, but what about when it wasn't? What would happen when she didn't come back? What if they both destroyed each other?

He'd be left with no Tributes to Mentor. He'd be left alone. Again.

The afternoon rushed into evening as he sat on Rylan's stool. The man had seen his demons when he'd walked into the market and had conceded to plying him with a steady stream of smooth liquor. He'd almost numbed the internal fight that was consuming him.

Almost.

"'Mitch, I think you otta be headin oot. Sae's look'n mighty feisty o'there." Rylan spoke with a heavy accent and broken tones. He hated his nickname. He hated it. His head hung heavily from the alcohol and the guilt that rolled through his system.

"She's just mad that I'm terrible. It's nothing new." His voice was slurred. Rylan reached to collect his glass and nodded. He felt Sae's warm hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. "Get off," his body turned on the stool and he shifted to stand. He swayed slightly and Sae grabbed hold of his arm.

It had been too long since he'd had trouble standing. Too long since he'd hadn't had to feel anything but numb.

They were halfway to the Village when Sae opened her trap.

"Thom mentioned you're inappropriate with the girl. I hope he's misunderstood. We had an agreement." Her voice is threatening and he can almost feel her fingers gripping tighter to his arm. He tries to shake her off. It doesn't work.

"We're not doing anything funny, Christ, do you not know any better?" He's frustrated that she would judge him so quickly.

"I know your past. I know what the Capitol made you do. I hope it's not impacting her recovery." She's stopped and he's been forced to stop or risk falling on his face.

"How dare you accuse me? I wasn't the one who locked her up. I wasn't the one who took everything from her. I would never do anything, _anything,_ to make her life harder. I'm not a bastard like Cray." He can't be clearer. His mind struggles to make her understand that it's not like _that_. It will never be like that. He only wants to help. He hates himself.

She seems to understand as he watches her back off and begin leading down the road again. Haymitch struggles to keep pace as his body jerks and sways unannounced. He ends up on his ass somehow, gripping his forehead as his mood tips darker. He wishes he could die.

It takes until after the sun is low on the trees before he's back in his house, warmed from the cool air by Sae's cooking. Katniss has returned and is watching from the counter as she prepares a stew. His stomach curdles slightly. His mind battles between rage and despondency as he collapses into a chair at the table.

He's clear enough to notice her staring at him as he slowly meets her eyes. He scowls and her face can't hide her confusion. Rage is winning.

It's quiet when they sit down to eat after Sae has left. He picks at the fresh bread on the table, unable to yet enjoy the meal. The tension is rising.

"What's wrong?" He's been waiting for the questions. His cloudy mind fights for words. He doesn't know where to start.

"What's wrong with _you_?" He wants a fight. Needs a fight.

"Nothing. Haymitch, what's gotten into you apart from an obvious amount of liquor?" She's so clear today. He doesn't feel bad about being honest right now. She'll understand. She has to.

"Don't you realize how stupid you're being? I know you've had your suicidal tendencies, but damn it girl, that is not the way you want to go. The Capitol would finally win. Coin would win. Snow would win. And you'd be dead," he pauses, measuring her shocked expression. "Peeta can kill you. He's already tried, twice. Maybe more, I don't know. You've got to be a total fool to go over there alone." She's stopped eating and is sitting stoically.

"He's not going to kill me. And if you could please stop throwing my own life choices at me for one fucking minute, that would be great." He can see her squirming in her seat. He wants to push the buttons harder.

"It's your past, kid; it'll always be thrown in your face. Deal with it before it's too late. Besides, you wouldn't be the first Victor to do it."

"Leave it alone, Haymitch." Her voice is threatening. There she is. His rage bubbles inside him.

"No. You're determined to have a death wish. We might as well address it so that I can stop investing so much time into someone who's determined to let themselves get killed. Or worse. Why don't you take a moment to remind me why you're worth my time?" He's almost shouting now. He knows her doubt of his affections for her is a weak spot. She'd always doubted how much he cared about her.

He watches as she tenses at his words, as her shoulders rise in offence.

"It's not my fault that you didn't have anywhere else to go to." Her voice is even and quiet. She's turned it around. Her words are sharp and she knows it. He's boiling over.

"I gave up _Effie_ for you. To help you stay alive. And you're risking everything for a quick fuck and a memory of what used to be. You're a fucking fool." He wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth. He'd shown his hand. He'd played everything he had. She looked like she'd been shocked by a buzzer as her mouth moved wordlessly.

Nobody had known about Effie. They'd told no one.

They had stumbled upon each other while he was in the Capitol waiting on the trial after the war. She'd insisted that they pick up where they'd left off during the Games with their secret arrangements to ease their loneliness. It had spiraled into a need and a comfort that they hadn't found before the Quell. It had become more than just guilt-free fucking.

She'd been _his_ Effie. She'd been the one thing that had held him together during the trial.

The night before the final decision was made he'd told her he would stand with his Mockingjay. He'd asked her to follow him wherever he had needed to go. But she'd been sentenced to the Capitol for crimes of treason during the war. Crimes that had been committed for both sides benefactor.

He'd been forced to leave her behind.

He didn't regret his decision. But he knew because of it he had to make sure his Mockingjay stayed alive.

The changed mood was quiet and subdued; the earlier tension dissipating from the room as he stood to grab another bottle and make his way upstairs. He didn't want to face her anymore tonight. He felt like a bag of shit and couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or the guilt that caused it.


	10. Chapter 10

"Well, well, look who's still alive!" His voice is as bright as the morning sun as he stumbles into the kitchen. His flask is securely gripped in his hand.

"And look who's still drunk, surprise, surprise." She countered. Her sarcasm was apparent. He smiled viciously in response, his bitterness festering.

He'd lain awake all night, anticipating her quiet departure that had never come. He'd heard her climb the stairs after their argument and then nothing until when at dawn she had padded past his room. He'd heard her in the kitchen starting breakfast and figured it wouldn't hurt to try to get some toast in between the liquor he'd been knocking back.

He still hadn't kicked the anger and sadness that clung to his bones.

She didn't look up from her reading of Finn's third journal as she ate a piece of toast. He didn't want her reading that at the table. He didn't want her reading it at all. It made his insides curl. He ignored it as he sat down with his own piece of bread.

"Finding all of the torrid details you always wanted to know, sweetheart?" He was wondering if she'd ever talk to him again after yesterday – after the way he'd thrown her problems in her face without regard.

"I didn't realize you were Finn's whore mentor. That's almost worse than leading kids to slaughter, even for you, isn't it Haymitch?" Her voice was quietly vile. She'd read the second journal – she had always been bound to find out. He only wished that she would leave that alone; that she'd see it was something he regretted. He hated himself. He hated her. "Would you have stood by as Snow sold me? At least I was 17. I could have handled it better than a 14 year old."

Disgust coiled inside his gut. He deserved this anger and resentment.

"I would have killed you first." It was a whispered confession.

He'd already had it all planned out when he knew she was coming home. He'd arranged with Finn, who would no doubt have been her _other_ Mentor, to poison her during one of their post-Tour training sessions. They would have made it out to be an allergic reaction. She would have been spared. He'd have saved her from something far worse than living at the feet of the Capitol.

He'd known too well it was coming if she won. During 74 half of the discussions that he'd overheard in the betting courts had been surrounding her purity. He'd stumbled into far too many pre-sale advertisements to ignore the fact that Snow considered her a new toy to play with. Too many of the events being sold were beyond taboo, even for him, and he'd known then he couldn't let her live through it. He'd waited for the calls to start, for the appointments to be scheduled but they'd never come. In a way, she'd been saved by the announcement of the Quell.

He finally met her eyes across the table as the memory faded. She was pale and her fingers gripped harder to the journal than they had before. She really had no idea how much he would do for her.

His eyes never left hers as her mouth struggled for words. Her lips would open, form, and then close. She was trying to figure it out.

"I tried to help him, Katniss," He didn't need to explain this but he would so she would understand. He needed her to understand. "When he was given to me I put off his first appointment for as long as I could. Said he wasn't ready. When we were sold together I'd always make sure I took the worst parts from the clients. And then they stopped selling me and I tried to buy up his appointments myself. I didn't have enough money and then it was too late. It was all I could do. But he was stronger than I thought and he made it out alive. I didn't save him, but he still lived."

It made his chest hurt. His fingers ran the edge of the table as the silence wore on. When he finally looked up she was gone. Not physically, but her mind was out. The anger bubbled up inside him and he whipped his plate into the wall, watching as it shattered to the floor. He hadn't saved her either, this shell of a girl.

He soon found himself back on Rylan's stool having left Katniss to her own devices. Two drinks in he realized he should have stayed and waited her out. Four drinks in and he couldn't stand himself.

"You know," He was slurring. "You can do everything but you can't save anyone – didja know that? Everybody dies!" His laughter was harsh. Rylan was ignoring him again. "I mean, I tried to save all of them little buggers. All of 'em. But there were better odds not in my favour. And the ones that made it, ha! They're disasters. They'd be better off dead!"

Rylan had slowed his refreshes. He coddled the last glass and sipped at it until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to meet Thom's sour face.

"Are you spying or stalking today boy?" He didn't appreciate this man's intrusion on his life.

"I wanted to apologize for that. And to let you know that she's in the forest right now but looking a little hazy. If she doesn't come home I can help you look later." Haymitch nodded. He appreciated the helpfulness and the updates – he just didn't like that he'd come under watch too.

"Drink?" Rylan interrupted.

"No thanks, kid's sick, gotta get some medicine from the shop before it closes up." And with that he was off. Haymitch watched as he disappeared into the crowd of market people. Life was beginning to return to the District, however slowly. He was disappearing back into the bottle. The past was catching up fast.

She was already in her bed when he returned to his house. He noted as he looked in on her that Sae had already prepared a plate of food and left it on the bedside table. Closing the door quietly he retreated to his room, putting down his flask and picking up his knife to whittle at his bed posts.

His hands shook as the alcohol slowly began to process in his system. He'd drank far more today than he had in weeks and he could feel it. The memories had barely infiltrated his waking mind this time.

He spent the early part of the night again listening for the soft footsteps that would escape from the bedroom. Again they never came. He wondered if somehow she'd started to understand that she just needed to be safe. He doubted it. When he finally slowly began to drift off the memories finally returned, paralyzing him in his sleep.

His body woke before his mind did, thrashing around and brandishing the knife he'd clutched close all night. He felt his foot connect with something solid before his eyes had even opened. The scream was loud and piercing. The adrenaline pumped through his blood and forced open his eyes, tearing him from the nightmare he'd been having to see Katniss half off of the bed and shrieking in the dull light of dawn.

He was confused. Dropping the knife he pushed himself against the headboard, determined to put distance between him and the girl until she was capable of free thought. He watched as she tumbled to the floor as her grip on the bed sheet was lost. What the fuck?

Her screams stopped when she hit the floor – he could hear the breath whip out of her lungs and her gasps for air as she came back to reality. He didn't dare approach her, terrified of what she'd been doing and why she was in _his_ room.

"What," he could hear her rustling on the floor, "the... fuck Haymitch?" She was still fighting to breathe as her head popped up at the foot of his bed. He could ask her the same thing; instead he reached for the flask and downed its remnants. His mind was struggling with the strange reality and the after effects of the dream that had held him captive all night. His blood was still coursing through him at full speed. She narrowed her eyes at the knife and lunged for it. He didn't fight back.

"Why are you in here?" It was all he could manage as he fought for control of his over-reactive system – too many years of being on guard had left him tense and defensive.

"You were yelling all night. I tried to wake you up but you wouldn't and then I fell asleep. Had a pretty nice wake up call too." She was staring at the flask in his hand, he gripped it tighter. "Should you really be drinking? You've been on a bender for days."

"Fuck you." It was all he could manage as he slid out of bed and began to make his way downstairs. He reached the kitchen and finished filling his flask as she entered. "You know, I could have killed you in my sleep. Are you always stupid enough to sleep next to someone holding a knife?" He was bitter at her intrusion.

"I've handled you before Haymitch, it's not much of a fight." He could see her standing tensely with her arms over her chest in the doorway. She wasn't going to stick around for food this morning. He took a drink to smother the words that clawed in his throat. "I'm going out. I wanted to tell you before I left so you wouldn't send your dog hunting after me."

He was taken aback, surprised that she thought he was spying on her.

"You shouldn't go there alone. Besides, I don't send a dog. I just notice when you're not here and when you are. Thom does everything else of his own accord. See, in case you don't understand, you have people trying to keep you alive, sweetheart, but you're making it ever so difficult." He sneered. He wanted to lash out.

"Stop trying to make yourself the good guy! You're just as bad as the rest Haymitch, don't you fucking understand?" She was yelling again, her switch having been flipped and the rage rolling off her in waves. She'd found the manic reactions again. "You've kept me locked up here. Forced me to live under your thumb. _Judged_ me for my life choices while you drown yourself every day at the bottom of that bottle. I'm so fucking sick of you and everyone crowding me I just want to be left alone!"

She spun and was heading quickly for the door, her feet no longer travelling silently as she stomped like a child from the house. Haymitch was after her in a heartbeat, grabbing for her arm to pull her back and have this out. He couldn't let her just walk out, not like this. He wasn't sure what she was capable of right now.

When his hand connected with hers she spun, reaching around and connecting her palm with his cheek. It stung. He stumbled back, relinquishing his grip.

"Katniss," His voice was steady and commanding, "You need to calm down. Come back and sit down." Her eyes were on fire as she paused at the door. His pace towards her quickened when she walked out onto the lawns. "Katniss!"

"You're such a fucking _drunk,_ Haymitch! You wouldn't know if I was here or there or in the goddamn _forest_ if Thom didn't tell you! And worse, now you're trying to tell _me_ how to behave as though your behaviour for the last 20 years wasn't anything but respectable!" He was losing this fight. He was going to lose her. His fingers gripped to the banister of his porch as he watched her stalk away.

"The only thing I asked you to do was stay alive." He said it quietly, unsure if she'd even hear it. It had been all he had asked. All he had wanted for her. But every time she walked out or didn't come back he was sure she would never come back.


	11. Chapter 11

"You make sure she gets home safe." It's all he can ask of this boy, too weary to stick around for another whip of emotions. He's too tired and he needs a drink.

He'd tried to sober out since the fight this morning. He wanted to be clear for her when she came back. But she hadn't. He'd watched as she disappeared into Peeta's house and didn't return. His body had sat, tired, on a kitchen chair as he flicked through the journal's she hadn't put away. They were reminders of everything he'd already lost.

He was tired of losing things.

She'd come back alive, but her spirit, her soul, it was tarnished in the fight. He hated that she would lie in bed for days or fly off the handle over something so small. It wasn't how it was supposed to be.

He hated how much of his thoughts were consumed by her. Hated how much he cared. Everything he ever cared about always ended up destroyed. That's just how it was. And here she was, turning into something beyond repair. He hadn't even really tried to fix her; he didn't know where to start. It was all so pathetic.

He sat at the table for hours, turning over thoughts of how to help her again and again. Somewhere in the hours that he sat he had grabbed the heavy binding that Effie had given to him in the Capitol. She'd instructed that he use it, knowing his penchant for journals, for Katniss if the trial had turned bad.

The smooth leather had soothed his mind as he'd sat alone.

He needed to break his rule. He didn't write her dates. He didn't write any memories. As the ideas for helping her came to him he would carefully jot them down, reminding himself for a later date. This journal would not be her memory – it would be his saving grace. Slowly, carefully, he wrote down every last idea he had from fighting her into submission to leaving her stranded in between the Districts. They were terrible suggestions, but he had to start somewhere.

It was only once evening rolled around that he recognized his need for food. Somewhere in the day Sae had stopped by to tell him dinner was at Peeta's. He'd gone to the dinner only to be disappointed with her words.

She was leaving. She was moving out.

He wouldn't have a chance to help her. He wouldn't be the one to make sure she came home alive. He couldn't figure out if the emotions running through him were relief at her determination or terror at her living on her own again.

She made the announcement proudly, a flickering of the old Mockingjay coming back into her eyes. He couldn't help but notice how her decision had culminated after another argument between them that had left her clearly more misunderstood about him. It bothered him.

He'd watched carefully after her big show of strength and independence as she'd slipped so easily back into a fade. It had come on as fast as her anger had in the earlier fight, flinging both Peeta and himself into abandonment. He couldn't stay to witness her own contradiction. She was no better off living with him than she was on her own.

She's sitting on the edge of his bed again with her back to the bedpost; he can see that her mind is focused on the pages of Cashmere. He's slow to wake as the hangover from yesterday pounds in his head. There's a tightness to her brow as she reads – he knows she's probably embedded in the nightmares he'd recorded there.

Despite her claiming to have moved out, this isn't the first time since her announcement that he's found her when he wakes. Often she's in his kitchen preparing breakfast or on his porch waiting for him to emerge to check on his geese. Today it seems she's intent on bothering him bright and early.

Well, perhaps not early, he notices as he looks at the sun. He can tell it's nearly noon.

"People are going start to wonder why you're here so often if you don't live here anymore, sweetheart." He mumbles as he pulls himself to his feet. He'd gotten over the surprise of finding her in his room – she didn't understand privacy like the rest of the world did.

"That's okay; you've got a reputation to uphold. Let them think what they want." Her quiet response makes his skin crawl. He didn't want to be put in the same category as Cray. He gathered some clothes off his floor and made his way into the bathroom to dress. He was sour that he couldn't just have the privacy of his room back.

"Haymitch, why did you hate Cashmere so much? It doesn't make sense what you've written." His fingers clench into fists behind the door. He hated these questions. They were his private thoughts and she was already invading his privacy by reading them. He leaned his arms against the door and breathed in audibly. He had promised in a drunken haze that he would answer her questions. He wouldn't go back on his word now.

"She made it worse for everyone. She bragged about her appointments, claimed it was almost a patriotic duty to perform. She even entrapped her brother for a while but he was never a big seller. It wasn't hard to hate her." He walked out of the bathroom as he responded, buttoning up his shirt. She nodded her acknowledgement and continued reading.

He already knew what she would find in those pages. Cashmere had been demonic in her pursuit of being the best Capitol whore. She'd encourage the clients to get more violent, to indulge in all of the things he'd hated. Finn had come to him mangled too many times to count after double bookings with her. It had been her that had put him in the hospital the time he'd met Annie. The memory made his skin crawl.

He pushed the anger back inside. He needed a drink, badly.

Out in the yard he fed his geese as she sat on the pen gate and watched. She'd followed him around for the day, taking his bottles of liquor away and replacing them with water when he wasn't looking. It had gotten under his skin. There was something different today. It was almost as though she was playing a childish game with him – so different from the mood that had hung over their interaction when she'd lived with him.

Her feet kicked the wood rhythmically and his headache throbbed.

"Would you quit it? If I can't drink at least let me some peace." He scowls in her direction and her feet still.

"Can you help me with something, Haymitch?" He turns to meet her eyes as a goose snaps at his fingers. Tossing the rest of the meal to the ground he gauges her for clarity. He doesn't want to play into one of her fits again.

"Depends what you're asking," It was the best he could offer.

"I want to start a book. Like your journals," He lifts his hand to stop her as he begins to march away. She's caught up to him in no time as he bursts into his house. "I just need help with how to start."

His pace quickens as he reaches the staircase.

"Get out of my house," He calls as his feet trudge up the stairs, mud clinging to the carpet from his boots. She doesn't follow him up to his room and he soon hears the door snap closed as he lies in his bed. He won't have it. He won't have any of it.

Dinner is at Peeta's again when she pulls out her idea. His mind is raging as she lures Peeta into the trap and proposes their own book. She's asked them both to help contribute hoping to bring him in as well. Her only saving grace from it all is that she doesn't mention his journals. She keeps those private.

He doesn't want any part of it and she knows it but he says it out loud still. He isn't going to play this public remembrance game with them. He's not going to lay out everything for them to judge him on. Clearly he'd already done that with Katniss and at times she'd simply thrown it back at him.

He didn't need that from them both.

He was back on his stool at Rylan's before the night was out. The sounds of the market were still brimming with activity as the extended hours of sunlight made shopping easier. He couldn't remember a time when the District had been this alive. It made him bitter. It also strangely excited him. It even made him a little proud – he'd helped everything change.

He downed another shot with a celebratory feeling in mind.

"Rylan, good sir, pour another, would you?" The bartender quickly refilled having not deemed him too far gone for the night. Haymitch tapped the counter before Rylan could turn away from him again. When his attention was caught, Haymitch motioned for him to come closer as though to share a secret.

"I need a favour," he whispered. Rylan leaned back and he could feel him measuring him up. He squirmed in his seat – that wasn't what he was playing at. "No, no, I need you to order something for me. While I remember!"

"Anythin' for the man who keeps me 'n business," he replied as he pulled out a pen and paper.

His mood was jubilant at the sounds surrounding him. He'd moved past his earlier sour behaviour.

"I need paper. Good paper. Lots of it. And a good binding. No, wait, scratch the binding – that won't work. I need a large book with a leather binding, about ye' big," he motioned his hands across the bar as Rylan took notes. "And then I need parchment. It's got to be strong stuff. It's gotta go to Mellark's – direct, not through me. Don't trace it back to me. Don't forget!"

"Whatchu need dis for old man?" Ryland asked as he stuffed the note in his pocket.

"I promised people I'd help fix some things." He pushed back from the stool and nearly toppled over. It was time to head back to his house. He'd done what he'd come for and then some.

It was like they were back in the Games and he was sending them a well deserved parachute. Only this one was cheaper and probably going to haunt him in the future.


	12. Chapter 12

"Thanks for the paper." She was standing in the doorway of her old room, watching him as he sat on her bed nursing a bottle. She was a rarity these days, having lessened her appearances in his house significantly.

Although he wasn't sure if it was really that she came around less or that she just wasn't _here_ every night to keep him busy. He couldn't tell.

He probably looked pathetic, sitting here by himself. He'd been lost in a memory from the trial. It had been the day that the defense team had announced that she'd tried to kill herself in her cell the night before. He remembered vividly the way his heart had stopped in his chest and how Effie had dug her nails into the back of his hand. It had been the first time that they'd heard of her string of attempts.

It was the first time he'd tried to visit her, only to find she wasn't allowed visitors. He'd raged at the guards but gotten nowhere. He'd felt like he had lost her then.

The memory gripped him again now as he looked up to find her in the doorway. She was alive. She was still breathing. He could feel the sadness leaving him, could feel the colour returning to his face. She must have seen him struggling to come back because she was there with her arms around him before he could breathe a sigh of relief.

"I thought I'd lost you so many times," He whispered it into her shoulder as he clutched the bottle tighter in his hand. He could feel her arms tighten around him.

"I'm right here, you old fool," He heard her voice shake and it broke him inside. He couldn't lose her now.

They sat together as the sun lowered on the horizon. When shadows filled the room he knew he could hide his face as he pulled away. He had to.

"Sae's probably waiting with your dinner; you should go before she tracks me down." She nodded and reached for his hand as she got to her feet.

"Come have dinner." He let her pull him along, needing to be free of this house if only for an hour. He left the bottle on the entryway table before they headed out on the lawn.

Sae nodded at them as they passed by. He felt like a child being led around. They entered to the smell of fresh bread and game meat cooling on the table.

They ate mostly in silence, Haymitch not wanting to talk about his episode and generally preferring the comfortable quiet. They both looked like they'd been put through the meat grinder, he knew. He could feel the puffiness surrounding his eyes and the soreness of his muscles. The liquor was slowly working its way through his system as the first shakes of sobriety were starting.

"I don't understand how you can tell me one day that you planned to kill me and then another act like losing me was the worst possible thing. I don't get it, Haymitch. I really don't." He was surprised at the quiet way in which she'd broached the topic. He'd expected it in the middle of a shouting match, in an all out brawl – not here. He placed his fork on the table and leaned back in his chair, debating how best to answer. He didn't really know himself sometimes.

"I couldn't watch you disappear like Finn. I couldn't watch your flame burn out – and it would have. You would have been better off dying in the Arena," He took a breath, convinced that it wouldn't come out right no matter what he said. "This afternoon, what you saw... that happens because I know you've already made it through the worst of it but you can still choose to go. I could lose you so quickly and you don't even seem to realize how much that would matter." He watched the crown of her head as it ducked to avoid his gaze.

"It would be my choice, Haymitch. The Capitol never let me make my own choices." She didn't get it. She was still fighting against something that no longer controlled her. Why wouldn't she get it? He moved to his feet, chair legs scraping at the floor. He needed away from the smothering anxiety that was choking his breath. Her shocked expression met his and she flinched at the anger that he tried to veil.

"It's a selfish one, Mockingjay," He said, referring to her need for choices. "Just remember how selfish your enemies were, too."

She didn't come around for a few days, he noticed. Just barely had he noticed. He'd fallen into the bottom of a bottle and had decided to stay there, lingering on his couch as the mess grew around him. He didn't care that he'd destroyed the cleanliness that had been his house for the last few months. It had just been another reminder that no matter how hard he tried, things would never change.

He'd always be alone in this drowning mess.

It made him bitter.

The time had been taken to replace all of the journals that she'd sprawled around the house. He found each one and put it back in its tidy place, assuring himself that they were all accounted for. It was the least he could do, he knew as he sat on his couch staring at their bindings.

He could tell that it was late by the dark in the windows and the quiet of the world around him. The liquor that was pulsing through his veins was heavy and he knew that he wouldn't sleep well tonight. He was past the tipping point where the alcohol would knock him into unconsciousness – instead his body would force him to stay awake and relive it all. He hated these nights, they were worse than the nightmares that riddled his dreams. Here the visions were vivid and brutal, causing him to thrash and destroy. He would hallucinate the players and it would only get worse.

He _hated _these nights.

He was sitting quietly on his couch, shooting back his liquor when the sudden burst of knocking at his door startled him into awareness. The last time he'd been woken with such a shock it had caused a ripple effect that had changed the game for him. He hoped this time would be easier as he stood and met the door with his drunken sway.

She was there crying but for the most part standing of her own accord. She didn't look banged up or bruised. His mood soured. He didn't want to deal with a mourning Katniss tonight – he had his own issues to face.

"What do you want, girl?" His voice was surly as he looked her over. She stood with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her face paled of colour upon his question.

"I needed somewhere to go; Peeta won't let me near him anymore." Her voice was strong apart from the slight shaking of her words.

He was tired of this game, hadn't he already told her to smarten up? Hadn't they already covered this part? His frustration grew as he let her step into his house.

"We've already been through this or are you really that stupid? I told you to stay away from him!" He could see that she was not expecting this reaction from him. She'd come here for something that he couldn't give her tonight. Something that had been denied to him every day of his life since the Reaping. She wanted comfort and this time he was just too bitter to give it.

"No, Haymitch you said I would get hurt! I didn't. Nothing happened we just got in a fight!" Her voice was bordering on shrill.

"You are hurt, look at you!" He motioned to her lack of dress as she stood in the foyer in a long t-shirt and her hunting boots. Her hair was scattered around her head. He knew there had been more to this fight but that she'd never tell him the real truth. He didn't want to know, in all honesty. He reached for his bottle and sucked back more of the soothing liquid. "Sweetheart, he did hurt you. He did exactly what was expected of him. You know it, I know it. Let's not pretend you weren't warned."

He moved into the kitchen and she followed. He could hear the tears start to pick up again and he saw it in her face when he turned to meet her gaze. He wanted to try one of his ideas. He needed to try it if it had any chance of helping her. Or if he was to have any peace tonight.

"Haymitch, please..." He wasn't going to play the game this time. He had to let her fall. She needed to get better and his coddling wouldn't help. She needed to get herself back on page.

"No. You need to go back to your little lover boy. Or go home and pull yourself together." Her face fell at his words. He needed her out of his house. He needed the silence to come back. He needed this to work. "You can't cry here, sweetheart."

She'd stopped sobbing as they stood staring at one another in his kitchen. She looked betrayed. He stood his ground, determined. They were at an impasse. He took another drink. If this worked she would be able to stand stronger tomorrow.

"I'm sorry to have... thought," Her voice faded out as she turned and walked out the door. Her pace picked up when she hit the lawns and he watched her disappear into the dark. His heart hurt. He was bitter. He needed her to get better – he couldn't be the one to help her. He hated himself.

She was gone.

She was gone.

What had he _done_? His mind struggled to match the frantic pace that Peeta was talking with as he crawled off the floor. He didn't care that the boy had kicked his chair over. He didn't care that his hangover was pounding in his skull. She was gone and he'd kicked her out. His plan hadn't worked. It had backfired. Fuck.

"And you checked her house?" The boy nodded at his questioning as he struggled to his feet. His blood was racing. He couldn't find her dead. No.

He couldn't think like that. His thoughts were scattering and he couldn't focus. She was gone. He'd lost her.

"I haven't seen her. Well, not since she came back like a lost puppy dog the other day. I told her to..." He didn't want to admit that he'd pushed her away. He wanted to wretch in the sink but his body wouldn't move.

"Where?" He looked up for the first time at the boy knowing for once that he'd been the one to destroy her, not him. All his fears were misplaced – he'd been the one to destroy her.

"I told her to go back to her lover; that she couldn't cry here. I just assumed she went back to your place." He watched as Peeta's body pulsed with fury. He couldn't blame the boy. Not this time. It had been him to ruin everything. Him to send her over the edge.

"I need to find her." Peeta's voice broke his thoughts. He watched for a moment as the boy headed out before he quickly fell in behind. He needed to act too. It was his fault. All his fault this time.

His mind raced as they headed straight for the square. He knew she wouldn't be here – she'd never hide in plain view. And she'd been gone too long – more than a day. She'd be underground by now. If she was even alive. No. Not that. His memory pulsed with the pages that he'd read from her file while she was imprisoned in the Capitol.

The doctors had deemed her as a high suicide risk. She'd tried to take her life already so many times while in her cell during the trial. They'd reduced her to nothing and she'd tried so hard to escape.

He couldn't help but think that she'd finally given in. It made his blood cold.

But still he searched along with Peeta, needing to convince himself that she would be alright. She wasn't dead. He couldn't think that way. His ideas had failed.

He could feel the tension rolling off the boy as they approached her old home in the Seam. What was left of it, at least. The frame was collapsing in upon itself and the roof was delicately balanced on a few remaining beams. He hoped she wasn't in there. He couldn't let Peeta find her in there. She'd already tried to hang herself before – it wouldn't be something new.

He didn't want to find her in there.

Carefully he stepped forward into the broken house as Peeta stayed behind. His hesitation was obvious and he wasn't sure whether if it was cautionary because of the structure or because he didn't want to find her body. Not here.

_Please don't be here_.

His eyes scanned the interior beams first, looking for any sight of her in the fading light. The shadows played off the decaying walls that were covered in burn marks. The house hadn't fared well in the bombing. As his eyes settled on the fireplace he breathed a sigh of relief.

She wasn't here.

Where _was_ she? He moved quickly, retracing his steps. He didn't want Peeta to be waiting too long. The speed was too much he realized as he narrowly side-stepped a crumbling piece of roof. He should have let it kill him. He deserved it.

"There's nothing but a fireplace back there. It's not safe and she wouldn't stay here." He knew at least that if he hadn't found her dead in here, she wouldn't come back to this place. She'd been smarter than that.

They made their way towards the forest next – the last place in the District and the most likely place that they would find her. He knew as he walked the first few feet deep that if he didn't find her here she wouldn't be found in these trees this night. He probably wouldn't ever find her in these trees – not the girl who didn't want to be found.

He finally had to call it quits as the sun sunk below the horizon. He hated to stop looking but they didn't have an option. Neither of them would be able to find her in the dark. As they stood along the tree line he measured up Peeta. The boy was guarded, his mood having become more controlled as the search went on.

"We'll start again tomorrow. Maybe we'll get lucky and she'll come in for rations," It was all he could offer in way of comfort to him. He couldn't think they'd find her dead. It was all his fault.

"She doesn't need rations. She would never forget how to hunt." Peeta replied. Haymitch knew he was right. He didn't want to admit it.

"Well maybe she was smart and finally escaped this place! Took off in the woods and doesn't _want_ to be found!" Worse, she could have been taken by the Capitol. Maybe they'd reneged on their agreement. His mind started to contemplate all of the options for where she'd gone. Anything to get her swinging body out of his mind.

"I'm going to stay at her place tonight, if you get any ideas from the bottom of that bottle."

He nodded at the boy's jab – he deserved it. He didn't plan on drinking until they found her but he knew that Peeta had every right to believe he would. It had been the drink that had made him push her away. He'd pushed her away and now she was lost.


	13. Chapter 13

He burned her journal when he got home. It had been a bad omen. He never should have written in it. Should have stuck to the rules. He'd broken the rules and now she was gone and it was his fault. Every line he'd written on those pages had been another line towards her destruction.

He hadn't helped her. He'd made it worse.

He locked himself in his bedroom and paced the wooden floor until there was daylight and he couldn't stand any longer. The alcohol was clearing from his system and his muscles were shaking in withdrawal. He didn't care. He slowly made his way downstairs to his kitchen and began to tidy up.

It needed to be clean for when she came back. He needed to show her that she was welcome here. He'd never push her away again. When the counters were shining he moved into the front room and began to toss out the trash and collect the bottles. He would take them to Rylan's. He couldn't have them in his house anymore. He poured out the rest of his stock and tucked the bottles in with the rest.

He needed to stay sober for when she came back. She would come back. He'd resolved to only think of when they found her alive. He couldn't bare the other options.

When there was nothing left to clean and no energy left to pace he collapsed into his winged chair and struggled to breathe. She was lost. He didn't help her. It wracked his soul.

It had been almost twenty-four hours since Peeta woke him up. Twenty-four hours that his heart had been racing and his mind had been confused with memories and nightmares colliding at every turn. He refused to sleep but found that he could no longer stand. The lack of alcohol in his system was making his blood thick and his movements lazy. He couldn't help her like this. He couldn't help her at all.

Nightmares flooded his mind every time his eyes closed and he started to fade. He was filled with more than just the reminder of _her_ Games. Images from all the Tributes he'd lost, from the camera feed that had shown him the replay of Finn's death in the darkness of the sewers, from finding his family disappeared by the Capitol after his Games. He was the factor to all of them.

He could no longer sit still. He moved to his feet and pulled at the boxes that he'd brought back from the Capitol. They were filled with papers that Effie had given him summing up what the Capitol had collected on Peeta and Katniss. She'd stolen them for him during the trial – a hard habit to break since her rebel days.

Setting up at the kitchen table he sorted through the files carefully separating them into respective 'Peeta' and 'Katniss' piles. He was surprised to find Peeta's stack to be taller than Katniss' considering the coverage of the trial. He hadn't realized the extent of Peeta's torture before he opened these pages and found listless documents detailing how to break the boy.

He was struck with awe at just how much he had come back from. The documents of the torture were extremely detailed and outlined every minor weakness they could attack. The guilt coiled in his gut. He'd been responsible for this pain too.

He turned his attention to the catalogue put together on Katniss and her habits. He was determined to find something that could help him figure out what was happening in her mind. He needed to help her when she came back.

It was hours before he noticed the rain falling on the windows and Peeta's wet frame standing across the kitchen. Exhaustion plagued them both as his shaking hand moved to put Peeta's papers out of sight – he didn't need to distress the situation any more than it already was.

"We'll find her Haymitch. She's a survivor." Peeta's voice was clear and stable – Haymitch envied his dedication to finding her. His hope was struggling with every hour. He didn't want cause doubt but he needed to share with the boy the same concerns that he had. He needed to make sure that he understood what might be hiding out there for him.

"She's already survived Peeta; she might have just made a different choice this time," his words made the boy's eyes squint and he watched as a glaze of tension rippled across his shoulders. He handed him the sheet of paper that had made his own blood cold.

"_Mrs Mellark (Everdeen) often displays suicidal tendencies. When left unattended she has been known to enjoy fits of terror, resulting in attempts upon her life. These efforts have often been subdued through chemical injections, though it seems the mindset persists. _

_She has shown some improvement as a result of a constant or a routine. _

_Her pattern of behaviour suggests a willingness to die for her beliefs and therefore suggests a strong correlation between the assassination of President Coin and these attempts on her own life. _

_Without constant monitoring her current state could become fatal. _

_This analysis is presented based on the opinions of Doctor Aurelius."_

He watched as Peeta let go of the paper, his hand shaking in barely tamed anger.

"And you didn't think this was worth mentioning?" Peeta croaked. Haymitch had been expecting much worse from the boy, especially considering the page that he had just read.

"She was better once she was released. That case was made while she was in the Capitol's prison. I didn't think you needed to know." He tried to reason. She had been better, for the most part. He couldn't deny that Katniss had been making huge steps and that part of that was because of Peeta and his presence.

"I needed to know, if I was the only one to know! You saw what I did to her! You saw that she forgave me! Did that not even once set off an alarm to you? Maybe she wanted me to kill her! Maybe she finally did it herself because she knew I couldn't!" Haymitch listened to the rage spewing from this boy. He had considered it all to be warning signs. He'd tried so hard to help her, so hard to keep her safe. He hadn't been able to help.

"You were making her better Peeta. Not the first time, not even close, but when she stood up and moved herself back home, that was her. That was her choosing to live. But I don't know what happened since and I don't know what happened when she came here that day. All I know is this piece of paper could be a reality. And you need to be prepared." It was all he could offer. He'd seen the change that she had had despite how weary it had made him. He watched carefully as the battle raged in Peeta's eyes.

The boy was coming to terms with the fact that she could really be _gone_. He knew that feeling too well. He sat back in his chair as he watched Peeta grip the wall and lean heavily. He couldn't help him anymore than he could help himself. It was when his face returned to a calm mask did Haymitch realize that Peeta didn't buy it – he was determined to find her alive.

He returned to his silence as the boy took off to the forest again and the rain prattled on outside.

He was only half paying attention to the journal that he held in his hand as he listened to the quiet surround him. He'd spent the afternoon with the papers and had realized that none of it actually mattered – he couldn't help someone who was already gone. He'd left them abandoned on the table and instead settled on his couch.

His body was tired. The shakes had calmed and he was only aching for the alcohol every couple of minutes instead of every second. He just wanted to sleep. He knew he wouldn't be able to. He was halfway through the journal pages when he heard his name being called throughout the house.

It was Peeta. She was alive. She had abandoned them. Chosen not to end it but to just leave. It hurt.

"She chose to keep living Haymitch. She really did," The boy sounded so optimistic, so impressed with her as he sat in the chair across from him. He wasn't so proud. They hadn't been enough to stick around for and it burned his insides. Everything he'd given for her. Everything to save her and she'd left.

His mind focused instead on the bitter thoughts of what could have happened if the Capitol had found out she was missing. They could have come after them all. She was such a fool. He wanted a drink. The boy left as he searched aimlessly in his kitchen for all of the bottles that he had emptied earlier.

Sobriety had reminded him why he tried not to let people close. This rollercoaster of concern and fear that he'd been riding for the last two days was horrid. It had only made him remember and regret all of his life choices that had lead him to care for this Girl on Fire. He'd gotten too close and she'd nearly burned him up.

He was in his yard tending to his geese when he next saw her. She hadn't stopped by, not once, to apologize or to let him know she was back. Peeta had probably kept her informed. Or she just hadn't cared to check in for herself.

He couldn't hide the frustration he felt at everything that had happened. He knew he had pushed her away. He knew that she'd come to him and he'd said no. But that hadn't been a first. She had to know better.

Maybe she had really no idea how much he cared. Or how much it ate at him that he wasn't enough to keep her around. Either way, she didn't come by to see him.

He tried not to blame her.

He didn't initiate conversation with her as she stared at him across the lawns while he fed the birds. She stood with her arms tightly crossed over her chest as she judged him from afar. He could feel the sense of betrayal emanating from her as she stood with her hunting gear strung over her shoulder. She was looking for a fight. He wouldn't give her one, not this time.

This game wouldn't be played today. He finished laying the meal and wiped his hands on his trousers taking a step in her direction. As though pushed by a magnetic force she retreated back for every step he took towards her. His facade cracked and his mood dropped. She'd truly given up on him. She'd finally settled on which version of him she preferred.

He raised his hand gently to her in greeting and then turned, retreating for the safety of his house. The Girl on Fire showed no path for redemption.


	14. Chapter 14

He was going to scratch his eyes out. Remove the skin on his arms and peel away any vestige of sanity that he had left. Somehow he was on the train heading back to the last place he'd ever thought he'd go again. The Capitol.

Even the thought made his skin crawl. He longed for a drink to calm his bones but had decided he could find no solace this time in the bottle. It had been the callousness of sobriety that had made the shaking stop (finally) and be replaced by an itching so intense he could not escape it.

It was a mental thing. A combination of all the hopes and fears and pure desperation that he was laying out on the table with this one gesture. He needed to find something that he'd lost. He was determined to find it.

Katniss and Peeta had both stayed away since her return. He couldn't help but feel he deserved it like punishment. He did. His intentions had run him aground and now he couldn't help either of them. So he was going back.

He hadn't even called.

As the days had passed in District 12 with no contact he'd withdrawn completely into his house only coming out to tend to his geese and then escaping back into the safety of his doors. He had pulled in and stayed low – determined to not ruffle any feathers. He hadn't even replaced his stock of liquor from Rylan after the night he'd poured it all out. He was trying cold turkey. He wished it was wild.

That must be where he'd gotten this fucked up idea.

Why was he on this train? Heading back to the place that had destroyed everything?

His mind flipped on that thought – he wasn't heading back to the place. He was heading back to _her_. Like a moth drawn to a light he needed to find the one thing that he'd lost that could still be found – if he looked. His Tributes wouldn't come back to him. They didn't need him.

The last time he'd seen her was the day of the trial. She'd chosen to accompany the Hawthorne boy to keep up appearances and to keep her facade of determined distance. He hadn't realized how much it would bother him not being able to sit next to her as the decision was read – she'd known that either way it went down he would be lost to her and still they had wasted it as they sat apart. The alcohol that day had masked the terrible disappointment.

He'd meant to kiss her, to hold her, one last time before he'd been whisked out of the court room by the guards. He'd meant to. But it hadn't happened – he'd been too tangled up and determined to get his little broken bird home.

He thought it hadn't bothered him much, they'd said their goodbyes already so many times, but when he was home it had finally begun to sink in. He would be forever in 12 and she was being tracked in the city. They wouldn't be in the same space again. He wouldn't ever feel her presence near him again. The realization had been unsettling.

He stopped pacing in his compartment as the train began to slow. He'd felt like a trapped tiger for days, pacing and sleeping, as the trip had dragged on. The only train back to the Capitol had been set to do a round trip on all of the Districts. Apparently nobody ever left 12 despite how restrictions were lowered and travel applications were no longer required.

He hadn't even thought to notify the government of his intention to leave. It didn't matter. If they checked, she'd still be there. As long as she didn't do anything stupid, she wouldn't leave without that boy. He didn't need to be a part of that factor.

He intended to keep a low profile anyways, if he could. He didn't want to be _back_.

As the train pulled into the station he held his breath, barely holding on to consciousness. His fingers gripped tightly to his lone bag that he strung over his shoulder as he stood at the train's door. Before him the skyline of the Capitol was painted in the afternoon light. It looked ominous and darker than he remembered it as the smog and a striking feeling of desolation hovered in the air.

This wasn't the same place that had once controlled Panem. It didn't shine and it sure as hell didn't look as though it would feast upon the lives of children to stay youthful.

His mind revelled in the idea that the Capitol had truly fallen from its glory.

Even the sounds were different, he noticed, as he walked the beaten path from the station to the city square. The bustle and constant harassment of noise was more distant and faded than it had ever been.

His mind thrust forward a memory from one of his drug-fueled appointments. The vision before him stalled and he instead pictured the swirling coloured lights and the bounce of bass in his skull as his blood pumped the viscous threads of amplifiers through his system.

Every sound, every touch, every sight, had burned into his body and made the world an experience of torture. His appointment had found ecstasy in the onslaught of sensory overload and had pushed him to the brink of sanity. It had taken him nearly a week to recover and by then reports of his behaviour had made it to the Districts and his Tributes had already perished in the Games.

He'd stayed longer in the Capitol that year to pay for his failures as a Mentor.

As the memory began to lose its vividness the scenes before him start to reconnect, returning him to the present. He's standing at the base of an austere memorial of the bombing when his breath catches as he struggles to remain upright. This hadn't been here last time. The sight makes his lungs constrict painfully.

Before him are children carved in stone, huddled with blankets strewn around them. Above, hovering in the sky, are glistening relics of parachutes. It was the scene of the last stand in a painful recreation.

He didn't want to believe that they'd built such a stark reminder of that day. It wasn't the Capitol way. The old Capitol would have masked this atrocity and played its citizens as fools. This new Capitol didn't hide its viciousness – it displayed it openly. It was a form of punishment, not remembrance.

He secretly promised himself to never allow Katniss to return here. She could never see Prim standing forever as a marker of the rebellion.

He's wandered this new and unfamiliar city for hours before he finally reaches her doorstep. The sun has set and the sounds around him have faded into the muffled background as his memory clashes with the versions he'd known so well. This Capitol is no longer a glistening beacon of hatred. Its true colours are finally showing.

He doesn't want to knock. Is afraid to.

"Haymitch?" He doesn't have to. His shoulders tense as he puts down his bag and turns to see what she's become. Her hair is the most strikingly different as it lays in short darkly coloured layers about her head. Her skin looks almost human, a far cry from the Capitol product it had once been, even during the trial. The makeup, her cloak of insufferable disguise, is washed out and natural. She's thinner now. He watches suspiciously as her arm disengages from her companion who is at least twice her age.

She's not the Effie he knew.

Nothing is as it once was, he's realizing.

"I... I shouldn't have come." His mouth is dry and all he wants is a drink. This was a mistake. His feet carry him off the porch and in the opposite direction before he remembers his bag – it's lost to him now. There's no way he can retrieve it. He picks up his pace as his heart pounds in his chest. The Capitol overflows with horrors as it spans out before him. He needs to escape.

"Stop!" The sound roars past him and he feels the hand on his shoulder pulling him back from where he stands, paralyzed, in the street as a truck barrels toward him. He wanted the collision. To feel anything other than what he was feeling.

He refuses to lift his gaze from the ground, determined not to notice anything apart from her newly practical shoes. She's not the Effie he knew.

Her eyes are the same. She's crouching before him now, struggling to meet his eyes as he looks away again. He doesn't want to feel her near him. It will break him.

"Look at me you damn fool!" Her affected accent is nearly gone and she sounds almost _real_. The polish has vanished and all that remains is the District spit that he'd always associated with being so _common_. It wasn't the loss of the style that was destroying him – it was the loss of what he'd known and the fear of what else she'd changed. He met her eyes and tried not to picture the man she'd been standing beside not moments ago.

"Haymitch, what are you doing here? Where's Katniss?" Her voice borders on shrill as she looks around. It occurs to him that this whole visit could be construed as a funeral call and he pulls away quickly from her grasp.

"She's alive. She's in 12." His words are strained as he fights the internal war going on inside him.

"Then why are you..?" She's struggling to put the pieces together; he can read it in her face.

"You. But you've company so don't worry about it." He pushes back and turns on his heel hoping to escape with whatever dignity he can salvage. This was a terrible idea.

"Haymitch wait! That's not," He hasn't gotten far before she grips his collar forcing him to stumble backwards. "That's my father. Take off your drunk goggles already." He hadn't even bothered to make the connection she had a _father_. That her father could even still be alive – nobody lived long enough to have grown parents in the District – was beyond him.

He feels her arms wrap around him as his face is forced into the crook of her neck. He can feel her _laughing_ and it spreads like wildfire through him as he breathes in her scent. He borders on being happy as they stand together in the darkened street.

He's found it. _It_. Whatever he had been looking for when he decided to get on that endless train. It's here with her.

And he's terrified of what to do now that he's found it.


	15. Chapter 15

"You made a promise to her, Haymitch."

It was the one phrase that he couldn't get out of his mind.

He'd been in the Capitol now for a few days and the message had been unfalteringly clear – no matter how much he wants to keep Effie he needs to return to his Mockingjay. She needs him to return. _He_ needs to return.

After his unannounced arrival on her doorstep earlier in the week his life has been consumed by an internal argument of guilt and insurmountable pleasure. He couldn't figure out which was going to win out on this fight.

She'd invited him to stay with her for the duration of his stay in the city and he'd easily agreed – he didn't have anywhere else to go and he _had _come here to find her.

The change in her had been a shock to his system that was only intensified when she introduced him to her father. Xavier Trinket was a subtle and withdrawn man from District 2 who could not be further apart in character from the Effie he had known during the Games. He was plain and gaunt and particularly loathed Haymitch unlike any person he'd met to date – and that was including his past Tributes parents.

The man had shut himself away in his room as soon as Haymitch had crossed the threshold of the house, leaving Effie to apologise for his manners. At least some properties of the ticking clock of the woman he'd known remained. It had only been through quiet discussion as they'd sat together on her couch that evening that she'd told him about her father and his role in District 2. It was a story he'd never known.

He'd been a rebel rouser from the start – one of the few in a District so determined to stay loyal to the Capitol during the rebellion. It had been him that had pulled Effie into the fury of action that had turned her rogue. She'd brought him here after the trial to watch over him; he too had failed to escape the hands of torture that had reached out into the Districts during the war and he'd been incapacitated ever since.

Xavier's hatred had first spawned for Haymitch, Effie had surmised, from her early days of involvement in the Games when she'd first been paired with him. Her father had hated the fact that she'd become part of a team so destined to lose lives as a result of poor Mentorship that it had nearly eclipsed his overall hatred for the Games themselves. As Haymitch's alcohol-fueled antics had grown more disastrous in the popular eye the man's hatred had grown – there was no way Xavier could forgive him for such an unnecessary loss of life.

Haymitch understood. It was as though the man shared in his feelings of self-loathing.

He'd slept on the couch that night, unsure of where they stood with each other and not willing to push too fast. He'd come back to find her and here she was but neither of them were the same people they'd been during the Games or during the trial. He needed his wits about him for this – he needed to make sure it was real first.

As the dawn had broken through the front windows of the living room he'd finally started to relax. The dark and unfamiliar room that he had woken in before the morning light had put him on edge as the nightmares swirled in and around him. He'd clutched desperately at the edge of the couch, holding tight to avoid slipping further into his building insanity as he fought for control. The lack of alcohol had returned his dreams to full-force levels of clarity making his heart pound in feverish familiarity.

When Effie's small frame finally comes into focus before him he pulls her close and breathes a sigh of relief. She's warm and tangible and here. When did he get so needy? They hold tight together as her father slips out the front door without a greeting. If he notices them there, he refuses to acknowledge it.

They'd taken their days slowly, walking the city and noting the changes that surrounded him. She now worked as an organizer for a small department geared towards restoring District independence – she explains that it's part of her reparations sentence and this time she isn't afraid to share the details.

She had worked for the Capitol at the beginning of the rebellion, luring sponsors into the money machine that fueled the attacks on the Districts. She'd become a key player in the fundraising required to keep the Capitol machine running and had too late recognized her role in the bombing of District 8.

When she spoke of her switch it was as though a light turned on inside her and the cobwebs were cleared from her memory. She'd begun funneling out confidential documents that had been key in determining Capitol targets. Her work had been a cornerstone to so many rebel movements that the rebels had significantly undermined the structure of District 2 before they had even blown The Nut. She had been sure that even if a tactical move had not been made, District 2 would have fallen soon after.

Despite her contributions, the new government of Panem deemed necessary punishment and she'd received a reduced sentence of five years confinement to the Capitol and required work duty. As she sat explaining in detail her new mandatory tasks, his memory couldn't help but fill with the last night that they had spent together.

Her head was resting on his bare chest as he held her close in the dark. The trial was ending tomorrow and he wasn't prepared for the results. Neither of them were.

Neither of them had been expecting _this_ either.

His mind was foggy as he flipped through some of the possibilities that would be announced the next day. The options made his skin crawl.

"Whatever happens tomorrow Eff... I need to stand with her." It was decided. Regardless of how it played out, he would stand with his Mockingjay. He had to.

"I know." There was a sadness in her voice as her breath fanned across his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair hoping to convey his feelings without words.

"Come with us."

There was desperation in his voice as he looked down at her. He hadn't wanted to ask her to follow them. He'd wanted her to do it of her own free will. He wanted her to follow _him_. She didn't meet his gaze and he felt her hands ball into fists at his side. Not a good sign.

"I can't." There was no air to breathe. He'd known that it was too good to be true. That she'd never be _his_. He refused to show his hand and masked his disappointment, continuing his ministrations around the crown of her head. He felt her body shake silently against his and he knew there were tears being shed.

"It's okay. We both knew this was a physical thing. I just thought maybe you would want –"

"I do! I just can't. I can't leave the Capitol." She pulled back until she was sitting bare next to him on the bed. "I was a traitor and now I can't leave."

He needed to move, to separate himself if only for a moment. He was paralyzed. How had he not known this? After all the nights they shared? Why had he been so oblivious? He was torn between his Mockingjay and this broken doll.

"I didn't know, Effie. I really didn't." He felt broken inside. Tomorrow would bring more than he was prepared for. Whatever decision was made, he would lose something. Anxiety was filling every fiber of his being and all he wanted was a drink to calm himself. Only one.

He moved to get out of bed in pursuit of liquor, of anything, when he felt her pulling at him from behind. She forced him back against the headboard and straddled his legs, her fingers bracketing his face, forcing him to truly look at her.

"You will still choose her. You have to choose her. You're all she has left." She was sure and clear and the tears were now gone. He searched her eyes for any sign that would give her away – there was none. He nodded slowly and then reached for her cheek, gently running his finger along her jaw. He would miss this.

Gone was the Capitol Doll who had primped and decorated her body for hours. Gone was the pitch and pomp that had grated his nerves and eventually lured him to bed for a spiteful romp after a hard Games. She was different now, subdued and focused, her mind critical of her situation. He didn't want to lose her.

He hadn't asked more about her sentence then. He hadn't had a chance as she'd pushed him into her and made him forget everything. Her body was a familiar comfort and when they found release he knew that they'd both needed this time. They'd needed each other more than ever to heal after the war.

The last thought he'd had before drifting off that night had been a true moment of never wanting to wake up.

As the memory faded he realized that they had finally returned from their walk to her home. Two plates of cold dinner were wrapped and ready on the table indicating that Xavier was already back. As they sat to eat he couldn't help but feel almost at calm with his inner turmoil.

"I need to go back." It made sense now. He'd come to escape the loneliness and guilt that had plagued him in 12. He'd needed to feel something more than loathing. Mainly though, he'd needed to know that she was still here.

"I know." She was quiet now. He couldn't help but feel like an ass, reminding her that he could still move about the District's without restriction. He shouldn't have come. He had needed it. "Will you come back?"

He barely heard her whispered question as he chewed his rice. It felt so normal to be sharing dinner with her, with this new Effie that was everything he had always needed. He lifted his head and watched her as she avoided his gaze.

"I'll always come back for you," There was a glint in her eyes as he spoke, "Even when your term is up and you want to stay here I will drag your reluctant ass onto that train. This doesn't end here, Eff." He was sure of it. He was sure that this had been real and not just a fulfilled need caused by stress.

There was a smile on her face as they finished their dinner and made their way upstairs. That night there was a new ferocity between them as they both held on for dear life. Neither of them was whole but they filled each other's emptiness. They took what they could get and then some, satiating their loneliness.

She walked him to the morning train that would take him back to 12. His departure this time was harder as he didn't have Katniss for a distraction and he couldn't help but watch out of the window as Effie slowly disappeared into the distance.

He knew he had to go back. There hadn't been a question about that. But he'd answered his own doubt about his Effie. It had helped.

The ride was shorter this time, passing through more Districts than it stopped in, even bypassing the whole southern ridge. When it finally pulled into the platform of 12 he felt a weight lift off his chest. The place was still here and nothing appeared to have changed.

It was late in the evening as he stole into the Victor's Village under the cover of darkness. He felt like a sneak as he tried to avoid any of the light cascading out of Peeta's house. He didn't want to see them yet despite them being the only reason for his return.

The loneliness began to rekindle in his soul as he checked on his geese – Thom must have already been by to feed them earlier. His house was still standing. Nothing had changed.

As he walked through the main level, tossing his bag onto the front room floor he was surprised to find a lone bottle of liquor on his table with a note underneath. His heart clenched as he recognized the scribbled print.

"Where are you?"

Katniss had been here. She'd sought him out. He couldn't tell the guilt from the anger as he settled in for a drink. He'd only have one tonight.


	16. Chapter 16

Apparently Katniss hadn't shared with the bread boy that she knew he hadn't been around for the past week. It doesn't surprise him – she was never one for showing her hand, especially to Peeta. Neither was he, for that matter.

His geese were preparing to fly south as the air in 12 began to cool. He'd been feeding them diligently since his return in hopes that they would stick around a bit longer. He was outside in the pen when Peeta first approached him after his return.

"Haymitch, have you talked to Katniss yet?" He couldn't read whether he was asking for her current whereabouts – which were a mystery to him – or if he meant something more long term. Either answer was simple.

"No. We're having a spat, apparently." He didn't turn to face the boy, instead using his calloused fingers to fold the loose wire around the pen's gate back into its clinch. He couldn't face this boy. He could hear Peeta approach him as he huffed out a breath. Before he knew it Peeta had the wire back in place and was checking the rest of the wire around the other edges of the pen.

"Yeah, that's what I've picked up from her, at least." Haymitch stood back and watched as the boy adjusted the wire in a few more areas. The moment seemed almost normal, he thought, as Peeta moved quietly. There was a kinship here. This boy had been saved and he was so different from the body that he had pulled from the trees weeks earlier.

"Why don't you come over for a meal tonight?" Peeta asked as he stood tall across the pen from where Haymitch leaned. His arms were wrapped over his chest securely and Haymitch could feel the confidence rolling off him. Peeta hadn't been confident since the Quell. Things were changing, albeit slowly.

"I don't know if that's a good idea." He was reluctant to face her. He knew she was angry at him. There probably shouldn't be an audience when they finally have it out.

"Come on Haymitch, we both know she's not going to eat you alive. She needs you more than she needs anyone, even me." His words of self-depreciation make his gut clench. This boy has no idea how much she was willing to give up for him. "I'll do anything."

"Fine. I don't make any promises though." Peeta seemed satisfied as he walked away and Haymitch returned to the silence of his house. He was tempted to spend the afternoon drinking if only to be able to better mask himself later. He couldn't do it. Instead he showered and dressed in a clean set of clothes, ready for a throw-down fight if necessary.

"Hey Haymitch, just in time," He didn't want to be here, not in the least. He'd only shown to appease Peeta and prevent any future hounding that this boy would insist on. Even Katniss looked like she didn't want to be here.

Nobody wanted to face down this awkwardness.

They hadn't shared a word with each other since she'd run off and he knew why. He'd pushed her out in an effort to make her stand on her own two feet. Instead of helping she'd seen it as abandonment and had held him in contempt. Even his time away hadn't melted her icy feelings for him.

Reluctantly, he put his body in the chair and started in on the meal placed for him. At least if he ate fast enough he could get out of here sooner and maybe avoid the whole thing in the end. It was probably too much to ask.

"How're the geese?" Peeta inquired. The boy knew damned well how the geese were as he'd seen them earlier. They were grasping at straws for small talk. He ate faster, spitting out words of reply just to get through the moment.

"Squawking. Can't get a moment's peace."

"Yeah? I saw you chasing them the other day. Must be why you're in such high spirits and looking more lovely than ever." He grit his teeth around another mouthful. He was bitter that the boy was throwing his own tricks of sarcasm back in his face. They all knew that he was in a foul mood. They all knew why, too. He flicked his eyes towards the cause of his irritation and couldn't hold his tongue anymore.

"Can't coop them up all day. Wild things cooped up go crazy, you know. Besides, birds are fickle things. They fly off, they come back for bread, they eat poison berries and survive, and they're just so _flighty_ you never can tell if their intentions are real." It was mean, even he knew it. The implication that she was to blame for everything was heavy in his meaning. He wished he could put the words back in his mouth and swallow them into his curdling stomach.

He didn't blame her when she stormed out of the room. He would have left too if he'd had the choice. His plan to eat and run had only been half accomplished before he'd gone and fucked it up. He couldn't even be trusted to keep his shit together when he was sober.

When the room was quiet again he looked across the table to where Peeta was gripping tightly to a knife. He could feel the tension and the anxiety growing in the air but he held his ground. The boy was nearly shaking with the waves of obvious anger that he was emitting. He couldn't blame him. He'd hurt her verbally and he knew that if he hadn't been the cause, and instead it had been another person who had spewed those words, the fool would already be on the ground. The guilt was immense.

"What's going on?" Peeta's words were tight on his lips as Haymitch could see him struggling to hold on. One wrong look and there would likely be another episode happening in front of his eyes. He couldn't let that happen, not this time. Before he could reply, Katniss was back and there was a flurry of emotion that filled his gut as he took in the emotions on her face.

"You fucking son of a bitch! You pushed me away too, you old fool. You're all allowed to be broken but god _forbid_ the Great Mockingjay from feeling one moment of weakness." She was raw and he'd been the cause. She was so right with her words. He had pushed her away but it had been for her own good. She didn't see that, she didn't see that he was trying to help her. He couldn't stop himself before his own rage barreled through and clashed up against hers. He had his own choice words for her behavior.

"You just disappeared! What if the government had found you escaped? How would that have appeared from the outside? Like he'd finally finished you off and buried your body? Like I'd let you scoot off to another District? You know better!"

He threw the weakest argument he had at her, hoping to push her self-righteousness back down. There would have been repercussions if she'd truly disappeared for the long-term, but just as he'd known when he slipped away earlier in the week, he also knew that it would take a long while before anything would have come down on them. She didn't even flinch at his words – she was too smart for that.

"This has nothing to do with them. My life is my _choice_ now, Haymitch. What don't you understand? I can do with it how I please and if that means living it out in the forest, or ending it right now, what business of it is yours?"

"Do you truly not understand how much you matter, sweetheart? You'd tear us apart. You cannot just go and off yourself anymore. You're not in their jails. You're here, with us." The blood was pumping furiously in his system as he ached for a physical fight. She was killing him with her words, every time she made this argument.

He was tired of her attempts at distinguishing between imprisonment and choices. She had a life full of choices ahead of her. The choice between choosing to live and choosing to die was different than changing a shirt in the morning. If she chose to no longer live she wouldn't be the only one who died with that choice. He would follow along after her before she could even let go of her last breath.

"Since when have you given a shit?" Her voice was shrill as she screamed it at him. The words killed him. She had no idea how much she mattered. Had he not made that clear enough? He'd failed at being there for her.

"Since the night the boy here woke me up, yelling and covered in blood, and I had to find you broken on the floor."

It was all he could admit. The memory of the night flooded back into his consciousness and it made his blood thick. He'd never been more terrified in his life at losing her. The silence that filled the room at his words was suffocating him. He struggled to breathe. He needed to tell her and she needed to understand that he was not just back because he had nowhere else to go. He came back for her.

"You were finally the broken Mockingjay and you'd been destroyed by the only thing left the Capitol or Coin or anyone had to fight you with; him." He knew she understood it as true when he met her eyes. Peeta had been the only thing that the Capitol had ever been close to killing her with.

She'd almost given up in 13 because he was missing. He'd almost killed her with his bare hands twice. He was deadly dangerous and Haymitch could never have survived knowing that the one thing that he had worked to manipulate her toward successfully had also destroyed her. He would have been to blame for the one sentence that had damned him in 74 – when he'd told Peeta to show his hand.

"Can someone just please, for once, let me in on the master plan?"

He'd almost forgotten the boy sitting at the table as they had their row. The boy who'd always been such a catalyst in it all. The reminder of his presence seemed to lower the pinched tension as Katniss retreated to the corner – refusing to get any closer to him.

"It's the same plan we've always had, boy. Stay alive. Only she doesn't seem to want to play anymore." He'd had enough for tonight. She wasn't going to listen to him any more than she was going to forgive him for trying to help. He lifted to his feet and began to make his way out the door when her voice made him pause.

"Haymitch, I'm not sorry for running. I came to you that night, looking for help, and you forced me out just like everyone else." He turned to meet her gaze. Her words made him hurt but he couldn't play into it anymore tonight. He held his emotions in check as he nodded to her silently.

He understood that he might have chosen the wrong time and the wrong method to help her. He'd been drunk and surly and probably not in the right frame of mind to work on his psycho semantic skills. He could only hope to help her if he was sober.

When he returned to his house that night he felt broken. Things still weren't resolved with his Mockingjay and every time they came together it was like two ibex battling for supremacy. Every time he thought they were getting close to an understanding they collided and repelled with such force that it knocked them both down, hard.

He understood then, in that moment, that this girl and he were so alike that unless one of them gave in they would drive each other to madness. Concessions needed to be made on both of their parts if they were to survive. He needed to lessen his drinking to be _there_ for her and she needed to finally recognize that he wasn't giving up on her.

He was in for the fight of his life, that was for sure.

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><p><em>AN: Sorry for the small wait, got my account buggered again.<em>


	17. Chapter 17

"Haymitch, don't be stupid. She's why we're all here and you know it."

They were sitting in the bright white-washed room that was so typical of the bunkers in 13. The cold from the dampness of the underground had slowly seeped into his bones and made the ache of sobriety ten times worse. His knees didn't like to move like they once had. He felt beyond his years.

"Besides the fact that we came here to change things, _you_ came here to make sure she got home at the end. That's always been your mission, the rest of us just tagged along for the ride. You and her, you're beyond different." He flinched at the fact that they thought he was single purposed. He was, probably. But he also had wanted to pull Finn out and finally save him from something. He owed him.

Finn was resting easily in the medical ward's thin bed as he continued on in his mental ramblings. It was how he passed the time now between when they arrived and when Annie would be returned to him. Because he was sure Annie would be returned. It was the only option for Finnick Odair. That much was obvious.

They'd all come through the escape from the Arena a little more damaged than they had expected. Haymitch's plans had been very much dependent on certain Victor's not surviving the initial bout at the Cornucopia. The survival of Brutus and Enobaria had been a key factor in everything going to hell and throwing the plan into disarray resulting in the loss of Peeta and Johanna. It was a price that had to be paid and they all knew it.

It had made the extraction nearly impossible. It had made getting Katniss home nearly impossible.

"I mean, don't get me wrong Hay, I understand the draw. She was the spark to this tinder. She still is. But what's your connection with that? Why'd you try so hard to save her in the first round?" Haymitch tossed him his bit of rope, hoping to distract from all of the questions. He didn't want to answer them. He watched as Finn looked up in the middle of a knot to stare at him. When their gazes met he knew that he wasn't going to get out of this. He leaned back in his chair measuring which answer to give.

"She had the pin. The same one as that Tribute, Maysilee, that I told you about. And you can say I got tired of losing, I guess." It wasn't a sufficient answer. Finn finished the knot and then tossed the rope back at him.

"Not good enough. There was something else."

"She reminded me of a better version of myself." He was quiet as he admitted it. There was more to why he was drawn to Katniss Everdeen. So much more he'd learned during the Games. But why her? He couldn't say it out loud but he wanted to save this girl who volunteered and who gave everything for someone else. He tied a quick knot that Finn had shown him when they'd been paired up so long ago. Finn gave a small clap when his fingers pulled it taunt.

"Hay, you're allowed to care for people. You don't always have to have an alternative motive to everything."

"No, you know better than that. We all do. Caring for others is not what Victor's do well. I worked to save her because I needed to save someone. Besides," He tossed the rope back and stood from his chair knowing his plan to leave now was cowardly, "I needed to finally save you too. That's why I let you tag along this time." His sore knees and old bones carried him from the room as Finn grasped at the rope in his hands.

He'd never really been successful at admitting to Finn his overwhelming guilt. He knew it had to be obvious. But somehow it just was better to say it out loud. Finn had never been accepting of the way Haymitch had asked for forgiveness – he'd always remained adamant that it was the Capitol who had taken everything. Whenever he'd tried to apologize, usually while in a drunken haze, Finn had pushed him out and yelled until he was hoarse.

The man had known better than anyone how to get fucked by the Capitol. He had refused to accept that Haymitch had played any part in his long-term abuse. He never blamed any _one_ besides the Capitol for what happened to him. He had been willing to give everything to save the ones he loved. And he had, so many times.

In that way, Katniss and he were unbearably alike. It's why he needed so badly to save her too.

The sound of a crash and a slew of alarms going off from inside Finn's room made his heart clench as he loitered outside the room's door. Haymitch considered his retreat as a swarm of doctors rushed past him. They didn't stay long and neither did he, convinced that it was just another fit that he needed to walk away from.

He'd gotten him out this time. Now he just had to get them home.

He woke up with a start from his memory. From his dream. They were often one in the same. His hand was empty of the knife that was often clutched in his palm. He ached to have it slide across his throat. But he wasn't in his bed and he wasn't in his house and there was no knife here to offer him any comfort from himself.

He mentally turned over the dream that he'd been having. He missed Finn, there was never any doubt. His mind flickered with the memory of the sewers and he consciously pushed back the bile rising in his throat. He refused to think about it. It made his gut clench in response. He could never forget that replay as long as he lived.

The man was gone. He'd given everything to bring Katniss home. He'd given everything to save Haymitch from his own guilt. Whichever way he spun it he would honour Finn by saving Katniss just like he'd unknowingly promised. A warped version of a life-for-a-life.

It was a selfish way to think knowing that Finnick Odair had given everything for more than just him and his need for repentance – but he couldn't help it. Not really.

The past week had been torturous as he had attempted to remain sober while also resisting giving in to Katniss' unspoken battle. They hadn't shared words since the dinner that had gone so poorly. He knew she was holding out on him, refusing to see him for fear that he'd hurt her again. He knew he wouldn't. Knew he couldn't or it would be the end for them.

But he didn't want to go to her either – he greedily wanted her to be the bigger person so he didn't have to. Who was he kidding? He was scared too. It was tearing him apart slowly and for every day that passed he grew more and more wary about his place with her. His bond with her.

He'd watched quietly from his house over the past week as she'd gone into town or into the forest and then spent her afternoons lounging on the porch with Peeta. The boy barely ever left his house. Maybe that was for the best until he was grounded and could handle his hijacks. He wasn't one to judge. He'd barely left his house either.

But today had to be different, he realized as he sat awake in his front room for another bitter night and watched the time change over to midnight. He needed to make a change if only just to bring about the catalyst. It was time.

He'd kept an eye out for the dark figure he knew would eventually escape into the forest in the early hours of the morning. True to form, she didn't disappoint as just after dawn he watched as she slinked through the trees. He followed behind at a distance as she plucked her bow and sheath of arrows from beneath a rock just beyond the tree line.

He would have to wait here until she came back. And then they'd talk. In the safety of the trees where there were no people to watch them burn and there was no Peeta to act as a mediator.

And she would have every opportunity to end his suffering if he finally destroyed himself with his own words.

He'd fallen asleep here with his back against this rock and the cold seeping into his bones. He wasn't quite sure how he'd done it, especially given the low temperature of the day, but he had and the dream had captured him within its depths. As he looked around him now he took in more of the forest – the sun was higher and the leaves were almost all fallen. The chill in the air made him shiver and he wondered how much longer out here he could wait before he froze to death.

Wouldn't that be a sight? Old, drunk Haymitch Abernathy dying alone in the forest. It was probably more than what anyone really expected of him.

His mind waxed poetic for a moment longer about his silly fantasy until he heard the nearly silent crunch of feet on leaves over his shoulder. He struggled to his feet and turned to face her.

He hadn't expected his knees to lock and his eyes to shock open as he felt the very sharp and very real arrow piercing through him. He hadn't expected _this_. He really, really, hadn't expected death to feel so warm.


	18. Chapter 18

_AN: To those who read avidly and review, you are all darlings. Thank you!_

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><p>He was awake. Struggling, gasping, and retching for air. There was a heat in his chest and a pounding in his brain that was pulling him in every which way. His eyes were wide and panicked and his right arm flailed helplessly for purchase as his left lay limp on the ground.<p>

He was dying. He was sure of it.

But until he was dead, he was still alive. Fucking hell.

With each exhausting breath he pulled in more oxygen to his body and felt the liquid in his chest bubble forcing him to cough and gasp again at the pain. His mind became aware of the struggling around him and the arms keeping him pressed to down, crushing him harder.

His eyes rolled to the side as they scanned over the arrow embedded into his chest. He was too fucking sober for this.

When he returned to consciousness again he was back in his house on his bed. He wasn't too sure how he'd gotten there. Didn't really care about the logistics.

Why didn't they just let him die already?

He rolled his head to the side and groaned. The bandages wrapping his chest and shoulder were grummy with dirt from the forest floor and featured handprints of blood. It was filthy and it was so appropriate. Maybe he'd get lucky and die from an infection.

He could only hope.

His earlier groan must have alerted the troops, he thought as Katniss and Sae swam into his vision. He still didn't have full control of his consciousness as he looked up and watched Sae pull her back from his bedside.

It was dark outside. How long had he been out? He felt nauseous and cold. His head rolled and this time his vision stayed steady as he looked around the room. It was empty but for the small body that was curled in the winged chair from his front room.

He lifted his right arm and touched his left shoulder gently. It was still attached and it was _throbbing_. He ached for a drink. Ached for morphling. Ached for anything that would finally knock him into the hereafter.

He couldn't remember how he'd ended up this way. It was blurry in his mind as he fought to recall what exactly had happened. His body lay prone in bed for a little while longer as he struggled with the deep pulse he could feel in his fingers and the incessant swarming of darkness in his vision.

He felt groggy and weak as he tried to lift himself into a sitting position. He had to piss.

His throat betrayed him as he moved to the edge of the bed letting out a quiet howl of pain. He couldn't remember being in this much pain. Not sober, anyways. He just wanted a drink.

Before he could place his feet on the floor Katniss was again in front of him, pushing him back down onto the bed and talking too quickly for him to take in. He wanted to push her off him, tried to, but she was stronger and was able to easily force him back down.

Every movement made him clench his teeth and grunt as his chest spasms. He was very close to releasing his bladder. She was pulling up the blanket over him. He felt smothered. Trapped.

"Stop."

Her hands paused over him and he looked, really looked, at her face. It was pinched and tired and red from what he could only assume to be a fit of crying. It made his chest hurt beyond whatever pain was caused by his wound. Her body was frozen mid-stride next to his bed and she clutched her hands tightly together.

"I have to take a leak, trust me; I can't run that far, killer." He aimed for bitter sarcasm. He must have hit low as he heard her break into sobs behind him. He really needed to piss. That was his first priority and he pulled every ounce of himself together and stumbled into the bathroom.

He didn't even attempt to stand or close the door as he collapsed onto the seat. He was winded and tired. Carefully he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes tightly. He'd rather be dead.

He was back in bed when he woke again, this time greeted by Thom sitting in his chair. How this man got stuck with the worst detail was beyond him. He struggled to lift his head to look around the room. It was bright out again and the sun was high overhead. The smell of fresh bread was wafting through his house.

At least all his senses still worked. So it wasn't a dream. Piss on that.

"Haymitch, you're awake." Thom said in his matter-of-fact tone as he looked up from his book. He hadn't even made a sound. This guy must have supersonic hearing.

"Wish I wasn't," He grumbled in return, using his good arm to push his body upwards. His head felt wobbly and his vision blurred again. That was a feeling he wouldn't miss if it never happened again.

"Let me get Sae to check on you, be right back." He was almost out the door.

"Wait! What the fuck?" He couldn't be bothered with pleasantries. He was confused and somehow he'd ended up like _this_? What the hell had happened to him? Thom's smile was stretched tight over his lips as he met Haymitch's gaze. His face was sore and the stubble was thick on his chin – he could feel it.

"I don't know-"

"Fuck that shit just tell me, boy." He was done dicking around. This was a game he was tired of playing. His fingers gripped into the sheets, searching for his knife. It wasn't anywhere to be found.

"It's not that bad. You just had a run in with an arrow. Just to the shoulder. Lost some blood but we got you all patched up." He was inching towards the door, maintaining eye contact while trying to escape.

"How did I-?" His mind filled with a flurry of images, memories and dreams and nightmares obscuring his thoughts. He needed to sort them out. Thom took the opportunity to disappear down the hallway. He felt old. The house was quiet around him as he focused on the sound of his breathing, slowly in, slowly out.

An arrow.

He had no doubt where it had come from. But why? That he didn't understand. It didn't make sense. He felt his pulse pick up as the anxiety began to fill him with confusion. Why did she shoot him? What had he done to push her over the edge? His breathing picked up and he struggled to pull oxygen into his lungs. The fear of all the possibilities tangled in his mind and he choked on his own breath.

He felt the gentle old hands pushing him back onto the pillows and brushing his bangs from his face. Sae noticed the panicked look in his features and gripped his hand, passing him a small flask. He sucked the burning liquid back into his throat and his toes curled as the warmth spread down his limbs. It wasn't nearly enough to halt the pain, but it worked to numb it.

"Calm down, old fool, before you strain something or rip out my stitches!" She'd begun to rummage through the bag that was sitting on his bedside table. He gripped the flask tighter and watched as she opened packs of clean gauze and some Capitol creams he'd only seen in the city.

"Where is she?" He wanted to hear what had happened. Every minute that passed made his body tense and his mood foul. He needed to know what he'd done.

Sae shook her head slowly, refusing to answer as she cleaned his dressings. He watched with a brutal fascination as she wiped the wound clean and rubbed the cream along the red flesh of his stitches. Her gnarled hands were gentle as they soothed over the swollen skin.

The anxiety still hadn't left him as she started to tidy up her kit.

"Sae, please!" He couldn't remember the last time he'd said _please_. The word was foreign. But he was desperate. The last thing he'd remembered was dreaming about Finn and being cold in the forest. There was nothing else in his memory and it was pulling at his sanity.

If she'd shot him because he'd pushed her too far, he would understand. If she'd tried to do him in in a fit, it made sense. But if she couldn't stand him anymore, if she truly wanted him dead, he should be dead. He couldn't keep living if he caused her that much pain.

He would die to save her. He would give her everything, just to keep her alive. He'd come full circle.

"She's at home with Peeta right now. She'll be back soon; she just needed to eat something." Sae wiped her hands along her skirt and then looked him over. He looked a wreck. He needed a shower. There was grime under his nails and dirt on his skin from the forest floor. "I'll send Thom up to help you get into a bath. Don't say no or I'll put you in there myself Haymitch Abernathy."

She was a fierce woman, there was no doubt.

He couldn't get out of the milky air of the bathroom any faster. He'd never been this sober when somebody had tried to help him get cleaned up. He had a rule about being too drunk to stand. This was embarrassing. This was pathetic.

He thought briefly of Effie, wishing she was here with her careful manners and her distracting need for perfection. He was glad she wasn't. He could hear the clucking of a tongue in the back of his mind and knew that no matter how much she'd changed since the war, she would still require of him some type of manners regarding the situation.

He decided not to worry her. He didn't have a phone anyways.

When he was back on his bed, his feet hanging over the edge as he leaned against the bed post, he heard rather than saw Peeta enter the room. The boy was never quiet. He didn't need to turn before the kid began speaking.

"Haymitch what happened out there?" Great. There wouldn't be any answers here either. The Mockingjay was keeping her mouth shut tight.

"Not sure, boy. I'm the one who's been unconscious here." He lifts the flask to his lips and aches for more liquor to fill his mouth. He's down to the dregs as he tosses it to the floor. There's a tired look about Peeta as he steps into sight and reaches for the flask. Haymitch sees a slip of false leg as the boy reaches and feels a wave of frustration pulse through him.

Nothing gets out of this life alive. Or in one piece.

"Well, she won't tell me. She's been pretty out of it. Just... keep that in mind when you talk to her?" Haymitch's lips curled into a brutal smile as the boy handed him his flask. He was tired of the naivety. Tired of not getting any _answers_.

He clenched his jaw tight as he swallowed the words he wanted to say. He needed to piss again. This was so much _harder_ than it needed to be.

She was there when he stepped back into the room. Her posture was tight and he could tell she hadn't slept. It didn't look good on her. It made him uneasy.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he made his way back to his bed and leaned up against the headboard. She didn't move, her face showing uncertainty of whether to flee or fight. He couldn't blame her, not really.

They stared in silence for a moment. Neither of them wanted to talk. Neither of them wanted to give in. It was just like it had been before this all got started in the first place. He felt his mood plummet as he realized that nothing had changed between them. No revelations. No saving grace.

He hung his head and looked at his knees. He would give everything but it still wouldn't be enough. He'd never be enough.


	19. Chapter 19

"I thought I'd killed you."

Her voice was hoarse as it broke over the silence. He was tired and he was sore and he just wanted a drink.

"I wished you had. Probably would've been better for us all."

He watched as she clutched her arms tighter around her chest and looked at the floor. She looked like she was barely holding the pieces of herself together. A heavy silence filled the air as even the sounds from the main level deteriorated into nothing. They were alone.

He remembered now why he'd been in the forest.

"I... Haymitch... I was," Her voice broke and her knees shook as she met his gaze head on. Her hands were faltering in the empty air as she gasped for words. He'd never witnessed this level of distress from his Mockingjay. He struggled to remain calm for them both. She was falling apart before him and he couldn't protect her from this.

And then she was there. Curling into this chest and pressing on his shoulder and shaking like a falling leaf. He fought for air as her desperation unravelled him and she grasped at his shirt pulling herself closer. His grunts of pain escaped from his lips before he could stop them and she scuttled back as though burned.

"I'm sorry! I didn't... Haymitch please. _Please_."

She was gripping the bed sheets again and her eyes were wild. He tried to process the sight in front of him as his strong and resilient girl was struggling. His pulse was rocketing along with her anxiety but he couldn't force the words past his mouth. His tongue was swollen and his lips were dry. He reached out a careful hand and gently touched her cheek.

He needed to save her from herself right now. There was a guilt that was consuming her from the inside and he recognized it all too well. It was the same feeling that had consumed him so many times as he'd witnessed Finn fade.

He watched silently as the tears fell and she pressed her face into his palm. It was as though he was watching a wave of calm overtake her as she crawled on her knees towards him again. His chest was aching with every breath as he tried to withhold the tears that threatened to fall. He needed to be strong for her. It was all he could do.

"Please don't leave me." It was a whisper in his ear as she leaned her shoulder against the headboard and reached her arm around his waist. Her face was tucked tightly in his good shoulder and he could feel the tears soaking through his shirt. He pressed his lips gently to the crown of her head, tightening his grip around her.

He never wanted to let her go. Never wanted to lose her.

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."

He woke up from the restless sleep he'd succumbed to with the evening light falling through the window. He seemed to struggle with staying awake for too long as the endless tired feelings would entrap him and pull him under. It was, he hoped, simply a side effect of his injury.

His body reminded him before his brain could recognize the petite figure curled into his side. Her small hand remained fisted tightly to his shirt on his chest, refusing to let him go. He had a hard time understanding the complete change in attitude that he'd witnessed over the past few weeks.

She'd held him in contempt for so long and now she refused to leave his side. It was like whiplash. It was like everything he'd needed to keep him here. He was a masochist.

Of course it made sense, he knew, as he turned the thoughts over in his mind. Katniss had lost her father in the mines to a violent death. She'd struggled with taking care of her family for so long. And then she'd faced the Games and he'd gotten her out alive. He'd been there for her when no one else had been around. There was a bond here that neither of them had truly been expecting. That neither of them could break free of.

He would give everything for her.

But he needed to know what had happened.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted himself into a better sitting position and softly brought her back to consciousness. His eyes never left hers as he watched the sleep blink out of her face and her mind return to the present. He forced a serene look (at least he hoped it was) onto his face, trying his best to look the opposite of the panic he was holding inside.

Her face turned down into a frown as her gaze settled on his dressings. He could see her holding back the tears and he tried not to laugh. He'd never seen his Mockingjay cry so ridiculously much. He must have given his reaction away as she tensed and sat up across from him with a scowl on her face. That was better. That was Katniss.

"So, care to tell me why you tried to kill me?"

He needed to use his sarcasm or this conversation would most definitely kill him.

"I didn't try it on purpose, Haymitch. Although maybe right now I wished I did." Her voice rose as she gently pushed on his good arm. The grimace laced her features but her eyes told a different story. There was a burning fire that had been rekindled since earlier.

"Okay then. Why not fill me in on what the hell really happened out there?"

"You snuck up on me! How was I supposed to expect a drunken old Victor wandering around the forest?"

"I wasn't wandering, I was waiting for you. I think I was planning to corner you into speaking to me again. Guess I lost that one, eh?" There was definitely a smile now. It faltered slightly as she remembered why they'd been at odds with each other.

"I am sorry. Does it help that at least I only hit your shoulder?" Olive branch.

"I wondered why your aim was shoddy. How'd you ever kill anything with that bow if you can't even hit the-"

"Hey! If I hadn't realized halfway through that it was you, you would be dead. I tried missing you but it was too late." He wasn't buying it. Her smile was tight and she was sucking on her tongue. She was lying to him.

He wasn't going to get angry. Instead he pushed forward into her space and met her stare head on.

"Why don't you tell me the truth, sweetheart? I'm a big boy now. I can take it." He clenched his teeth and tried to hide it. He needed to know what had really happened. He'd watched her hold her bow on too many targets without releasing – even when she thought her life was on the line like in 74 against Peeta. His Mockingjay didn't shoot on a whim.

He watched as the guilt again played over her features.

"I thought I was in the Arena again when you popped out. I didn't realize it wasn't real until too late and then you were bleeding everywhere and you weren't waking up. I thought I was dreaming but then nobody woke me up and Thom showed up and... I..." He was trying hard to keep up as her voice was racing with the recollection. Her eyes were skittering around the room as she tried looking anywhere but at him. Carefully he reached up and gripped her chin in his fingers, forcing her to look at him again.

"I'm not going anywhere. Nothing you say changes that." He needed to make it clear. She needed to understand. She nodded in his hand and took a small breath.

"Thom and his wife were out for a walk and must have heard me. She tied up your wound, I think. Thom was too busy dealing with me, I guess." She held up her wrists and for the first time he took note of the hand marks bruising up her forearms. "I think someone else showed up then and Thom and he got you back here. Sae was waiting with her kit. I don't know much else. I think I blacked out or something."

She was speaking to his chest now and no longer his face. The holes were filled in. It made sense now. He pulled in a thick breath and flexed his bad side. The pain felt good as it released in his system.

He didn't hold it against her. He knew what it was like to be lost in the dream so deep that you think it's real. She and Peeta were the only ones who knew what it was like to suffer with the haunting memories.

"Well, we're all alive and that's still the plan, right?" He tried to make it light-hearted but failed. There was no making light of their lives. They just had to grit their teeth and bare them.

"I really didn't mean to hurt you. I don't know what I would do without you." Her voice was quiet filling the room.

"I know. I thought I'd lost you once before. I've been there. I get it."

They sat together quietly for a while longer before his stomach gave way to groans of hunger. The fresh bread from before was still lingering in the air and he was determined to make his way downstairs, if only to ensure no one read his journals. He wasn't used to having people constantly in his house.

His front room was the first place he went when he reached the bottom step. An overwhelming weight lifted off his shoulders that he hadn't realized he had as his eyes found the bookcase covered in a black sheet. It almost blended into the dark room. He looked over and watched through the door as Katniss cut the bread and began to plate it.

She understood his demons better than anyone. She understood _him_ better than anyone.

For the first time since before his Games, he felt like he had a place and that place was keeping her alive, no matter the cost.


	20. Chapter 20

It was a month, almost, before his body seemed to return to normal. Each night the dreams would overtake him only this time they were filled with a realistic pain that he could only equate with the aggravation in his shoulder. It was a small price to pay.

He made up for it in drinking.

Early in his recovery Katniss had noticed his actual effort to avoid drinking whenever they were together. She'd mocked him and teased and generally made the effort more difficult on his part.

"Haymitch, I don't expect you to give up your best friend for us. We all have methods of coping, alcohol's yours. Don't put yourself through hell just for us."

She'd brought it up as they sat together around the table and his sleepless nights had finally caught up to him. He was sitting with his head resting on his hands as he watched her and Peeta consume their fresh game stew. He hadn't been sleeping because he hadn't been drowning in alcohol that would knock him under.

They all knew why. It wasn't a secret. But he didn't _want_ to drown every night. He wanted, in a small part of him, to see where this all ended. He wanted to see these lives through. And so he'd countered in his tired voice with its strained edges:

"It's not a friend. It's a tool. And I'll use it when I need it."

She'd backed off the topic, thankfully, and he'd returned to his partial nap on the table's edge.

He returned to the Capitol not long after Sae gave him the go ahead. He didn't bid farewell or loiter on their doorstep before he hopped on the train and made his way home to _his_ Effie. He didn't stay long. He couldn't. But he held her as she slept and she kept away the demons in his soul for those few nights.

She never pushed on the topic of his wound. She'd asked, but he'd only provided "Katniss" as an answer, as though it would solve all of the world's mysteries. She'd watched him carefully as he puttered around the room and then moved into conversation about her work. Effie knew better than to ask for more than he could give.

He didn't need any kind of liquor to keep him steady here. He only needed her.

His return to the District was more eventful than the last. Stepping through his door he instantly noticed the sheets on his couch and the mess in his kitchen. It wasn't _his_ mess. There was a difference. He stood silently in his foyer and looked around him, primed for attack.

"Where the _fuck_ have you been Haymitch?" He dropped his overnight bag to the floor and contemplated running from his own house at the sight of her. She was in her hunting gear at the top of the stairs, her hair was wild about her face and she stood practically vibrating with anger.

He was tempted to take a step back. Tempted.

"I thought you'd gone off and died! What happened? Where-?" He held up his hand and then made his way into the kitchen as he heard her feet thumping down the stairs to join him. He really only wanted a meal first.

"Stop avoiding me!" This voice was new. He lifted his head from the cupboard he'd been examining and looked her over silently. Measuring her up. She was angry but there was a fear about her that he couldn't quite put into words. It was as though she was in the middle of a fit yet she was perfectly coherent.

He couldn't separate the two levels of desperate from each other. This was new territory and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

"I'm not avoiding you, sweetheart. I'm right here." He needed to approach her as though she was a timid animal. He lifted his hands in front of him and walked slowly towards her. She clenched her arms tight around herself and looked at the floor. When he reached her he pulled her close and held tight, determined to calm her down.

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving? I've been losing it. Ask Peeta. He can't even look at me right now without thinking I'm a mutt. You can't just do that!" There were all kinds of wrong in that accusation. Maybe he'd been the catalyst, or maybe it had just been a rough week. Either way, he knew that next time he'd make a note to tell them before he left.

"I was in the Capitol, I didn't-"

"You were _where_?" She pushed back from him, fear lacing her features. He kept his hands solidly on her shoulders as she tried to push away.

"I was with Effie. I didn't think you and Peeta needed to know. I _have_ been an adult for years now." He said it calmly as he met her stare. "Take a breath, Katniss." Her shoulders slumped and she looked to the floor again.

"Just tell me next time. Peeta thinks I'm crazy right now. It's been a bad month since… You know. We don't talk about it." He nodded and stepped back, returning to his original quest for food as the mood dissipated.

"I will. Promise. But you gotta keep calm now, sweetheart, Peeta needs something steady or he's unpredictable. You know that. Are you still calling in for your sessions?" He pulled loose a packet of snacks and leaned against the counter as he ate. He was starving.

"Not really… Well, sometimes. I don't think they help."

"Keep at it. Why don't you head home, see Peeta?" He really wanted some quiet to decompress after the train. She shrugged in return and pulled out a chair to sit in. She wasn't going anywhere right now.

He sighed and continued eating his crisps. He couldn't help but think about the time not two weeks ago when Peeta had done almost the very same thing to him. He'd asked him to clear out so he could take a nap. He hadn't. And they'd sat together around this table for what seemed like days before Peeta had said what was bothering him.

Peeta was recovering. That much was easy to see.

"You know, she dreams about the day she shot you now." Haymitch hadn't realized this would be about Katniss. He'd almost hoped to avoid talking about _that_ day, and the subsequent ones, ever again. The odds were not in his favour. He nodded his head in response, sure that eventually she would struggle with it. "She wakes up screaming your name sometimes. I practically have to sit on her to keep her from running over here and waking you up just to make sure you're alive."

"I'd probably already be awake." He was leaning back in his chair now, letting Peeta lead.

"That's not the point. She's not _getting it_, you know? It's as though it's not making sense that you're okay now. Sure, she's not fading as much or losing time as much, but it's like she's not really... here. Does that make sense?" He considered Peeta's words for a moment. It made complete sense.

"Let me ask you something, Peeta. That first night, the night of the storm, you remember it, don't you?" Peeta nodded as Haymitch leaned forward again and put his forearms on the table's edge. "Well, this is like that night for you. I know you still think about it, you can see it in the way you are around her – always carefully controlled. For Katniss, she's reliving that day in the forest every night too. She's not going to just forget it. You have to see that, don't you?"

"I do. I just... She's been so, solid, with me all this time. I don't know how to do that for her yet. I want to but this, this new panic sets me on edge."

"Peeta, you're barely out of the woods yourself. You're going to spend the next few years working on this. Hell, decades. And it's going to be damn fucking hard. You'll fight and you'll probably get hurt – it's inevitable. But this whole thing? It's just a blip in the radar. Very soon she'll be back to mutts and the sewers and _Prim._ Those are the nights where shit will hit the fan and you can help her."

He hadn't thought he could make his point. He had a habit of being too drunk when people needed real advice. This was so much different. Peeta silently sat, running his fingers over the table markings, as he considered Haymitch's words.

"So, just keep going then?" He nodded in return.

"You don't have to talk about it. She'll probably shut it down anyways. You just need to remember that it's not easy. Nothing about this will be easy, for either of you." He knew better than most that this was a marathon and not a sprint.

His mind refocused on the pale girl in front of him as they sat at the table. He could tell that she hadn't been sleeping well either.

"How do you do it, Haymitch?"

"More specific, sweetheart."

"How do you keep going? After everything you've done, everything you've seen?"

"Some days I don't. You know that."

"You're still alive though. Why?" He ponders her question for a moment. Sometimes he's wondered to himself why, even when he's in the thick of it, why he doesn't just give up. He does it for _them_. Each time he tries he remembers and then it's always them who are worth living for. Now he lives for Katniss. And Peeta, he knows.

"I find something worth living for. It used to be Finn. He was all I had for a long time. And then you came along and he had Annie and it was like you and Peeta just needed some backup. So I promised myself I'd keep you alive. And then I had all three of you to keep alive." He took a breath, thoughts filling with Finn and Annie and the war. "I was never good at juggling. I dropped the ball and Finn died. But I still had you. And Peeta was barely hanging on. And so I kept living to make sure you two made it back alive. We all just had to stay alive."

She was watching him as he picked at his fingers. He knew that they were his reason. It couldn't, shouldn't, be hidden anymore.

"We're a right lot, aren't we? Like a triangle that would fall apart if any of the links broke." The metaphor fit. He didn't want it to. He wanted them to be strong enough on their own.

"Katniss, I won't be here forever." Her face scrunched up and he bit his tongue.

"Just stay as long as you can, okay? I can promise that. So can you." He nodded in return, his eyes never leaving her face. He was finally getting a commitment from her. Even if it was tied to him, he'd take it. He'd already given everything for her.

"How about we all, Peeta too, just stay alive?" A smile played at her lips and she stood from her chair.

"He promised me cheese bread today. I guess I should go hold him to his word and deal with... this." She waved her hands in the air and fluttered, referencing the mess she'd made and her lack of capacities during his departure.

It's quiet when she leaves. There's an ache in his arm and his knees hurt. The cold outside has creeped through the house and is tucking itself into the corners of his body. He doesn't mind, he finds, as he sits at the table and cracks a bottle of liquor.

It's getting better.


	21. Chapter 21

Cold slowly and reluctantly gave way to warmer air as the months continued on. The trees of the forest returned to their shades of green and his geese reunited in his yard. He'd almost missed the blasted things during the winter. Almost.

It had been a quiet few months as events had finally started to settled down. Peeta and Katniss had seemed to find their fit and were living together full time now. Katniss only sometimes seemed to end up on his couch or the end of his bed in the early morning hours as she suffered from an episode and that was okay.

The fits and lost hours from them both seemed to be less frequent as the temperature began to rise. Only occasionally had he had to intervene in between the two during a dinner or an argument.

Things were okay with them.

He was almost okay too.

He'd filled another journal with stories of the people he'd met in 13. Boggs, Mitchell, the rest of the fatal Star Squad. They deserved their pages. They'd brought Katniss home too.

On the day of the Reaping Day Festival he'd closed the final chapter on Finnick Odair. He figured it would be the final chapter, at least. He'd shut the journal as he'd filled the last page with a memory from Finn and Annie's wedding, finally complete. He had recalled the pure joy that had radiated off the man on that day. He remembered how it had finally felt almost _okay_ to be happy for him.

The festival didn't make him feel that. He didn't know how to feel about it.

Katniss had first told him about the District's intentions to throw the event after the cold winter months. He'd gotten drunk that night, sure that it would be a disaster that he didn't want to ever participate in. The idea had been loathsome. It had been terrifying.

And now it was here. Things were brighter than he'd expected – there hadn't been an incident to ruin the mood of the District in months. Yet still, he didn't want to face it alone. He gripped his bottle tight in his hand and filled his flask with another before heading over to Peeta's to check on the pair. It would be a hard day for them all, that much was sure.

When he stepped through the door to the kitchen he was more than surprised. Katniss was cleaning a large buck in the kitchen and separating out its stock. It was impressive and he couldn't help but be astonished at the size of the thing as he clapped her on the back and said a loud toast.

"Where'd you get this?" He tipped the bottle back and took a sip. She grinned broadly at him and continued her preparations.

"I shot it! This morning, Peeta and I were in the forest and I got it. Sae's coming later to get some for the festival tonight." He didn't flinch as she pulled back at the flank. Refocusing anywhere but on the night ahead of him.

"And where is Peeta-bread today?" She paused her actions slightly and he took notice. It wasn't a good day already for Peeta, it was obvious.

"He's upstairs painting. You can go up if you want, but..." She trailed off and rubbed her hands against her pants. Her clothes were already filthy. He nodded and kept quiet. They weren't going to talk about how difficult the festival would be. They all had planned to go. Planned, at least. It was a step in the right direction. He took another sip.

"Alright. Well, I'll leave you to it. You'll get me if you need any... help?" His eyes motioned to the ceiling above where Peeta was taking refuge.

"We'll be fine, Haymitch."

"Still," He pressed as he headed towards the door.

"See you tonight," She called after him, returning to her task at hand. He didn't respond as he headed back across the lawns to his house. He'd see them tonight, but he had very little intention of remembering it.

The afternoon passed in a hazy blur as he sat on his porch sipping down his bottle. He'd already finished off one and was currently working on a second. The haunting memories from his own Reaping Day were folding through his consciousness as he rocked on his porch swing. The fresh air was the only feeling tying him to the present as he fought to remain conscious.

He watched out ahead as the sun slowly began to fall over the tree line. It was getting closer. Like it was a wave moving up the shore.

The festival was supposed to be something _good_ for the District. It was supposed to be a celebration. But as a Victor of his Games and one of the few remaining remnants of the past, he had a hard time getting past the ominous undertones.

He'd probably never get past this day without the feeling of being smothered with memories.

Later, as he made his way into the Market to Rylan's stall he couldn't help but notice through bleary eyes the lights and colours that flickered around him. It was truly a sight, even for drunk eyes. The District seemed larger than he'd ever seen it. Seemed happier too. The early crowds with their grinning children and their loud screams of excitement didn't grate his nerves but instead relaxed him.

This Reaping Day was not meant to be filled with grief and pain.

He stumbled his way onto a stool at Rylan's counter and the man didn't even bother to ask before pouring him a shot of something strong. Rylan knew, without a doubt, that for any Victor the celebration of the Reapings would be bittersweet.

Haymitch didn't hesitate in tapping for another after quickly swallowing the first.

And the night went on. The sounds filled in and the crowd pulsed around them as Rylan worked double time to serve all the customers at his stools. In the pauses of service Rylan would talk to him and ask him about nothing important trying very hard to keep him conscious for a little while longer.

He was sitting hunched over the counter with his head in his hands when her voice floated over his shoulder. The Girl on Fire who'd made it home alive. The closest thing he would ever want to a _daughter_. He held himself together and tilted his head to the side as she pushed a bowl of water in front of his face.

His eyes focused and refocused on the piece of paper that was tucked under it. The words floated and swayed in the water's illusion.

'His name's Fin'

It was scrawled with a careful mess on the paper. His mind clicked it around into place as he took notice of the fish. He wanted to sob like a child. His chest felt like it would collapse upon itself as he read the words again. The gesture was beyond words.

He turned swiftly, as swift as he could at least, and pulled her tightly against him. This girl was what he was living for. She was the reason his heart still beat. Finn had given everything for her, for _him_, and now here they stood with crowds celebrating around them. The war had ended. Festivals were held instead of Reapings. This girl had been the flame that had burnt the world to the ground and saved him.

"I can't give you back your old one and I'm sorry I lost him. But don't lose this Fin, Haymitch." Her words were heavy on his heart and he held her tighter, refusing to let go of his last vestige of hope. There was a note of cause in her voice and he pushed it away. Finn had acted of his own accord that day. She hadn't lost him.

"He wasn't lost. He just chose to give everything one last time." He whispered it in her ear and then released her back to her night. He nodded at Peeta who stood behind her, observing the scene in quiet contemplation. The boy had turned into a man during the winter months, had turned into something he was proud to leave his Mockingjay with.

They were the three Victors of District 12. The markers and the survivors of the Capitol. They were Reaped in a day that this festival longed to overshadow.

He turned back to face Rylan at the counter and laid down his coin. Standing from the stool on watery legs he lifted the bowl in his hands and pushed onward toward the Village. The walk took him twice as long as he stepped carefully, clutching to the bowl, refusing to spill even an ounce of the water.

He'd slept heavily through the next day, avoiding the hangover that would undoubtedly punish him for his lack of dreams. He didn't hear or see the images from the night before that had exposed the Victors to the rest of Panem again.

It was only when Sae showed up in his kitchen and told him about the photos that he considered tearing his hair out and fleeing the Village. Instead he checked in on Katniss and Peeta, encouraging them avoid the Town and keep to themselves. He reminded them of her conditions with the government, of how if the government wished they could proceed to check her status.

He didn't need to remind them of their options if she went missing again.

They already knew what was coming. He'd seen it in her eyes that the way the Capitol feasts on her privacy made her cringe. He pitied them both. They were only trying to move on and the government refused to let them do it in peace.

When the knocking came a few days later he didn't bother answering.

Nor did he answer the next day.

He considered checking on them, seeing if they were alright, but he knew they would be better off figuring it out themselves. That's how they had healed each other. He'd be there if they needed him. He'd be here for as long as he could.

The days moved on. They turned into weeks. And soon the District was once again quiet with the daily life of its citizens. No swarm of cameras arrived and no press flooded in. Katniss and Peeta explained what had happened and its results with reservation.

They weren't sure either if this had been a one-time deal.

He was thankful at least that it was Cressida who'd been assigned to them. She was likely the reason there hadn't been any outcry at the story, or lack there-of. She'd been witness to the trials these two had faced during the war.

He spends most of his time now out with his geese, tending to his flock. It's here where she finds him as the sun shines overhead and surrounds them with warmth and comfort. There's a steady peace here now as she rises to sit on the fencing of his pen.

She kicks her heels against the wood and he can't help but smile like a fool. He's reminded of how young she actually is. How much life she has before her. It's hard to believe he got her home alive. He turns to meet her eyes, inquisitive as to why she's here. He can see Peeta heading towards them with a fresh loaf of bread. Always baking. Some things never change.

Except it has. She looks a little different now. A little lighter and a little happier. There is no hint of the sharp bones and the frail girl that he brought back from the Capitol so long ago. This girl is strong and alive. Every bit the phoenix he saw rise the day after the storm.

"You have a secret. Out with it." He calls across the pen to her as Peeta rests his hand on her shoulder. She grins in response and takes the bread from Peeta's hand, offering it to him.

"Want some toast?"

He's not surprised. Really, he's not. But he can't help hide the grin that plays across his features. They finally fucking did it. For a moment, he can't help but feel glad that he's here for this moment. Too many years he's spent wishing to end it, too many days he's spent drowning in his liquor. It was a long way out of that bottle.

But this moment, right here, was worth it.

* * *

><p><em>AN: And that's it! There's a epilogue still but this will be the end of this story. Thanks for sticking around and I hope you enjoyed it.<em>


	22. Chapter 22

Haymitch Abernathy – Infinite

* * *

><p>Death: Natural (Liver Failure), 62<p>

Mentor, Friend, Father, Uncle, Savior

He didn't go alone like he'd always expected to. He went sitting on a rock in the forest while the summer sun shone through the trees. He went next to friends – next to family. He is laid to rest in the forest at the side of a lake in his home of District 12.

Finnick Odair, District 4 Victor, was unequivocally his best friend prior to his own death. Haymitch would claim him as almost a son. Their bond lasted past death. They were sold and used together as many Victor's were in the Capitol's prime. This must never be forgotten.

Family (mother and brother) were killed after his Games as a result of his actions. He had once loved a girl named Evaline (she was also taken as punishment).

He later loved another named Effie.

In the last years he was surrounded by Katniss Everdeen-Mellark and Peeta Mellark – his last Tributes and his enduring family. He was a devoted Uncle to their two children. He spoiled them terribly. He was always there to help raise them.

Haymitch Abernathy lived honorably. He tended to geese and fish. He enjoyed dancing at the Reaping Day festival.

He lived shamelessly with Effie Trinket until her death five years prior. They never had a Toasting. He kept living after her death for the birth of his nephew, he would say. He lived on another four years.

He occasionally taught the youth of the District about the years of the Games. He was a living witness to the early and lifelong atrocities that accompanied the years of the Capitol's power. He would speak honestly which was likely the reason that he was only asked 'occasionally'.

History will claim he drank until his death but those that knew him knew it was more than just a weakness. He was sober more than he was not in his last years. But the decades he spent drowning his memories of the Games had a lasting effect and eventually contributed to his death. This should not be ignored.

It cannot go without saying that Haymitch Abernathy was impacted by and in return changed, Panem and the history of the Hunger Games. After winning the second Quarter Quell he was charged with Mentoring District 12 Tributes until he coordinated a nation-wide rebellion which altered Panem forever.

He can be called a drunk. He can be called a bastard. He can be called so many things but he should never be forgotten as a man who lived to save others. He loved fiercely though he loathed to admit it.

He didn't like to talk about his Tributes. All he wanted was to save just one. He saved two, in the end.


	23. Nominated!

Nominated!

Hey all, I apologize for popping this up in your inboxes – I never wanted to be _that writer_ but both _Long Way Out_ and _The Storm_ have been nominated over at 's Pearl Awards. I'd be incredibly appreciative if you'd take a moment to head on over and vote at this link:

http:/kwiksurveys [dot] com/?s=MKOIJH_e38a4140

Again, thank you so much for all of your reviews, favourites and just... awesomeness.


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